


The Waking Sea

by The_Real_Fenris



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Friendship/Love, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Original Character(s), Past Character Death, Post-Game(s), Post-Trespasser, Second Chances, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Tevinter Imperium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 22:46:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5719828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Real_Fenris/pseuds/The_Real_Fenris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Harding finds Cullen Rutherford dying of lyrium addiction in the streets of Val Chevin. When Dorian Pavus hears of his old friend's fate, he takes matters into his own hands. </p><p>Post Trespasser.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my darling [hirrient](http://hirrient.tumblr.com/) who helped shape this story.

“Brave love, dream

not of staunching such strict flame, but come,

lean to my wound; burn on, burn on.”

\- Slyvia Plath, _Firesong_

 

 

Blanketed by the fresh, falling snow, the slums of Val Chevin were beautiful.

Snowflakes glittered against the night sky, their brilliance diminished as they fluttered down through the lights cast by glowstone lampposts. Three solid inches had already accumulated upon the ground, crunching under the waterproofed leather soles of Lace Harding’s boots as she hurried through the maze of desolate alleyways. She had tarried too long in the alienage, and now it was late.

She could feel the nip of the cold in her nose and ears, and – to a lesser extent – in her fingers and toes. It had been an unusually cold winter this year in Orlais, rivaling those she’d passed in the Frostbacks, back before the Inquisition had been consumed and transformed into just another long arm of the Chantry. Her business complete – that of recruiting an elven contact for the Inquisition – Harding desired nothing more than to return to the inn, to settle down with a mug of the infamous local mulled wine, and let her toes uncurl before the raging fire in the tavern’s hearth.

Harding’s travels had taken her to many dangerous places. She had scouted the Hissing Wastes, avoiding detection by Venatori. Emprise du Lion, with its ruins encased by ice and red lyrium. The Western Approach, home of fierce dragonkind and their kin. In comparison, Val Chevin – the jewel of the Waking Sea – seemed a paradise.

And yet – Harding knew better. It was all a beautiful lie. Scratch the veneer of civilization, one faced the cold reality of Orlais: all its defects, its political corruption, its insidious Game. For every shining, golden aristocrat, the slums housed ten families devastated by unspeakable poverty. Danger lurked in the desperation of a man driven to criminality, more dangers in the nobles’ covert machinations, and the unexpected plunge of an assassin’s knife.

Still, driven by a need for comfort, Harding had eschewed the long trek of the safer main streets for the short-cut through the dark alleyways. She was a hardened agent of the Inquisition, accustomed to dangerous places. And she kept her knife close, ready to spring it loose at the first sign of trouble.

As in most of Orlais, what was undesirable was kept hidden. There were no beggars in the main streets of the glorious city of Val Chevin. Instead, such people were swept aside, chased away by the city guard. Driven back, the lost souls congregated in the lost spaces. Unseen. Hidden. As if they didn’t exist.

Striding through the alleys, she passed by many a lost soul. Lace Harding was not heartless, but she was also pragmatic. There was only so much that a single person could do – and she was merely a small cog in a very big machine. Thus, she ignored the pleas and the outstretched hands of the poor bastards who huddled in their rags, half-frozen and destitute, as she passed their half-dead or dying bodies.

She could not help them. Even Inquisitor Trevelyan – had he wanted to – could not have saved everyone.

“Please, miss – wait. Don’t go.”

A lone man, huddled against the wall had called out to her. One of many. Harding had hurried past them all, without pause, until now.

In that voice, she had heard something familiar. Soft-spoken, slightly raspy, with a hint of smokiness, the accent Ferelden, the vowels lax and rounded. A voice that tugged on some unnameable emotion deep within Harding – but she couldn’t place it.

Snow crunched beneath her heel as she turned to walk back to the derelict soul who had called out. Staying more than an arm’s length away, Harding crouched down before him as she tightened her grip on the well-honed dagger she kept in the sheath at her belt.

She blinked away the snowflakes that had settled on her eyelashes and inspected the vagrant.

In the shadows of the alley, she could barely make out any details. She could not see the color of his eyes. His face was half-covered by long strands of tangled hair and a straggly beard. As for his clothes, they were colorless and worn, boots so beaten they were nearly scraps, holes in his pants. One hand reached weakly towards her, while the other clutched at the dirty stole around his neck.

She blinked again.

_Great Ancestors._

Disbelief quaked Harding’s voice into a thin, wavering whisper of shock. “General...?”

\---------------

Ambassador Dorian Pavus was beautiful, glorious, and cold as winter in Orlais.

Harding had arrived in Val Royeaux only an hour ago. Once she had given her report to Inquisitor Trevelyan, she had been dismissed for the day. Harding had decided to walk the grounds outside the palace. Dripping with icicles and festive holiday lights, the grounds were quite pretty. Hands in gloves in pockets, Harding roamed the cobbled pathways among the frost-kissed statuary and trees, admiring the scenery.

It was while she was wandering that she saw Dorian Pavus for the first time since the Exalted Council two years ago.

He moved like a stallion, in powerful, yet graceful strides down the path, as if he owned the stones, the gardens, and everything around them. He wore many sumptuous layers of robes – rich furs, velvets, and silks – in varying shades of black and gold, that swirled about his ankles with every step. Surrounding him were a number of well-heeled aristocrats and fawning sycophants, chattering away like insignificant birds, each vying for his favor.

Above the ermine collar that brushed his jaw, the bronze-toned face was much as Harding remembered it. Dorian Pavus had always been a beautiful man, but now it seemed as though he had somehow grown more into his face, all strong bones, sensual lips, aquiline nose, and eyes sharp and gray as steel. His hairline had receded slightly more at the temples, but his hair was still lush and dark, oiled and meticulously combed back into a tail. He still bore his signature curling mustache, though now he wore a closely-trimmed goatee upon his chin. Despite the fact that his expression was as cold and expressionless as those of the statues in the garden, Harding could not deny the allure of Dorian Pavus’ exquisite male beauty. Like a godling.

Harding had stopped in her tracks. Now she stepped aside, waiting for the grand procession to pass.

As Ambassador Pavus approached, his gaze swept the path. His eyes fell upon Harding. Within them ignited a spark of recognition. Harding was surprised when Dorian came to a stop before her, lips curled in a soft smile, his eyes suddenly full of feeling.

“Scout Harding,” he said. “Or, rather – I suppose it’s not ‘Scout’ anymore. I heard that you’ve replaced Commander Rutherford on the Inquisition’s War Council.”

“It’s Captain now, Ambassador.”

“So you’ve moved up in the ranks, then,” Dorian mused. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Ambassador.”

As his entourage looked on with impatience, Dorian considered Harding for a long moment. “It’s very cold outside,” he said. “If you’re available, Captain Harding – perhaps you would care to join me in my quarters for a warm drink?”

It took Harding only a moment to make her decision. “I would be delighted, Ambassador.”

“Wonderful,” he said, smiling again. “And do call me Dorian.”

Harding had been a soldier too long to easily eschew titles of rank or respect. However, after Dorian had dismissed his throng of attendants, Harding did willingly follow him through the gardens and into the Palace. Shortly they were settled in Dorian’s opulent quarters in one of the guest suites, seated opposite each other in two wing chairs in the sitting room near a blazing fire. An elven servant in Orlesian finery set a tray on the table between them. Upon the tray a selection of pretty tarts, teacakes and other confections was artfully arranged, along with two steaming mugs.

Dorian gestured with a graceful, heavily gold-ringed hand at the tray. “I don’t know if you tried it, but it’s all the rage in Val Royeaux. Hot buttered rum. With a touch of cider and honey.”

Harding picked up one of the mugs as Dorian did the same. Sweetness mixed with cream melted on her tongue, warming her chest as the drink drizzled down her throat. “It’s wonderful.”

Dorian smiled as he wrapped both hands around his own mug. “It is rather delightful, isn’t it? We don’t have anything quite like it in Tevinter, and I’m afraid I’m becoming addicted to it.”

Harding felt the warmth seeping into her bones, slowly dissolving a tension she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying all day. “They must have rum in Tevinter,” she said. “If you had the recipe, I imagine you could recreate it.”

“True,” Dorian said. “But rum is considered too ‘vulgar’ for the noble elite. Stuff of poor people and pirates.” Dorian paused, rings quietly clacking against his mug as he set it down upon the table. Leaning back in his chair, he placed one ankle across his knee and smiled again. “So, how are things with the Inquisition?”

Dorian was secretly amused by the hint of surprise that appeared on Harding’s face. It was the same expression he’d seen when he’d invited her inside for a drink. Granted, during Dorian’s time in the Inquisition, he and Harding had been on vaguely friendly terms, but they hadn’t been friends. And – given how quickly word had spread about Dorian’s final fight with Trevelyan, the one which had driven Dorian out of Skyhold – his interest in anything to do with the Inquisition or Maxwell Trevelyan must have been unexpected.

Maxwell Trevelyan – _that motherfucker._

Dorian hadn’t been comfortable when Trevelyan had conscripted the rebel mages into his own private army. But then, early on, Dorian had been willing to give the man the benefit of the doubt. He almost believed Trevelyan when he’d said that the southern mages would be much safer under the Inquisition’s thumb, instead of as apostates running free. By the time the Inquisitor killed the elven sentinels at the Temple of Mythal, losing that singular chance at ancient knowledge, all the sheen of Dorian’s illusions about the man had worn off, revealing the soul tarnished black beneath.

He’d had enough at some point. By then, Trevelyan had taken to provoking him. Questioning Dorian’s motives. Dismissing his magic as something improper and unholy. Making inappropriate remarks about Dorian’s relationship with Bull. So when Trevelyan had found him one afternoon while he’d been trying to book passage with a Tevinter ship captain, and demanded to know Dorian’s business, Dorian gave up all pretense of subservience.

He’d never been good at restraining his tongue. He’d lashed out at the Inquisitor. Condemned his actions. He remembered the last thing he’d said before Trevelyan physically attacked him.

_Watching you spread across Thedas like some cancerous growth sickens me._

Real spite had slammed out of Trevelyan’s fist. He’d punched Dorian – right in the face – hard enough to knock him to the floor. Dorian hadn’t fought back. No, he’d left the Inquisition. He’d still been bitter about the nature of his departure when he’d returned two years later to Val Royeaux as the ambassador from Tevinter. He’d practically taunted the Inquisitor into accepting his help. For whatever reason, Trevelyan had accepted it – due to his being low on allies at that point, perhaps – which meant that Dorian was there when Bull turned on them – all of them, including Dorian – and died on the Inquisitor’s sword.

Right before Dorian’s eyes.

Dorian had never recovered from that.

Still, two years had softened the edges of that pain. Pain which he stored way down deep in a box sealed with magical wax somewhere inside him. Pain which he pretended not to exist, even though sometimes – if he were drunk, or alone late at night, unable to sleep – it would unexpectedly appear to him and stare him in the face, refusing to be ignored.

He didn’t like those nights.

Now, though, he leaned on one hand, sipping his hot buttered rum with the other, as he listened to Harding talk about the Inquisition. He’d heard things, of course, particularly from Divine Victoria – once Leliana – about the workings of the Chantry’s newest watchdog, so he knew enough to realize that everything Harding told him was non-confidential. Still, he couldn’t begrudge her for doing her job.

What he did know was that the Inquisition had infiltrated Tevinter. Gathering information, allies, and attempting to root out Solas’ spies. There was talk in the Magisterium, of course, both in favor and against the Inquisition’s actions. As of yet, Trevelyan had not come to Dorian – the ambassador to the Inquisition, an important magister, and possibly the only man of influence in Minrathous who truly understood the threat Solas possessed – but Dorian knew it was only a matter of time.

_Someday he will come and ask for my help. When he has no other choice._

Dorian asked Harding a few innocuous questions. She brightened a bit when he asked her about her travels, so he kept close to that topic. Not that he was particularly interested in Harding’s little missions _per se,_ but he found that he was rather enjoying being able to hold a conversation like this, with someone who was down-to-earth, and lacked a hidden agenda unlike every diplomat, mage, and minor member of the nobility who threw themselves in his path.

Then the conversation took an interesting turn when he asked about her recent trip to Val Chevin.

Harding became quiet for a moment as she recalled the man in the alley.

Her first reaction had been disbelief. She’d thought, _It can’t be him._ Except that no one had seen him since he’d so abruptly retired from the Inquisition after the Exalted Council. A word in private to Trevelyan, and then he’d just disappeared. No one had received any news of him since then.

At least until now.

“In the alley. I was just passing through when a man stopped me. One of those poor souls who beg money for lyrium. It was him. General Cullen Rutherford.”

Dorian’s hand, which had been lifting the mug to his lips, froze halfway in its trajectory as her words sank in. Then he lowered the mug back down to the table. “What did you do?”

Harding resisted the urge to touch the knife at her belt. Using it to put the man out of his misery had been an option, one that she had given careful consideration. “I gave him some coin so that he could get something to eat,” she said. “Even though... well, you know how it is. He probably used it to procure more dust.”

Dorian stared at her for a moment, completely appalled. “Then you just... _left_ him there? In the snow? Alone?”

Harding glanced down at her lap. “There... there wasn’t anything of General Cullen left to _save.”_

Dorian made a small sound of dismay. He didn’t want that image in his head now, the one of Cullen Rutherford – _his friend_ – alone and lost in the throes of lyrium withdrawal in the dirty back alleys of Val Chevin. He stared at the guilt on Harding’s face as he twisted his rings.

Finally Dorian’s hands stilled. “I can’t believe that,” he said with a voice all fierce conviction. “We must find him, Harding. And you will show me.”

\---------------

Soft flakes swirled on the breeze as Dorian ducked into another narrow alley behind Captain Harding.

They’d been searching for hours. Before this night, Dorian had never realized just how large the slums in Val Chevin were. He’d visited the city before, of course, in his role as Tevinter ambassador, the guest of some duke or other, but he’d only seen the pretty places where he’d hobnobbed with the rich.

Their progress was also hindered by the sheer number of bums that filled these back alleys. They were all filthy, dressed in rags, so he had to admit that there wasn’t much to differentiate them. Before each man they found, Harding had been required to stop to take a closer look. In some cases, to ask the man to speak. But so far, none of them had been the man they sought. _Cullen._

The darkness had also hindered them. At least until it occurred to Dorian that a small flame conjured surreptitiously in his hand would shed enough light to speed up their task.

At some point – though he didn’t let it show – Dorian began to feel disheartened. They’d been looking for so long. Outside it was so cold, and the temperature was only continuing to plunge rapidly. He wondered how any man without recourse to magic could survive _this,_ night after night. They’d already stumbled across one corpse – an old man with white hair, dead of exposure. Or something else – Dorian didn’t know, and didn’t care to dwell on it. Nor did Harding, apparently. She’d muttered something about it being a shame that they couldn’t give the dead man a proper funeral, already moving on to the next.

He was certain that Harding felt as miserable as he did, but she did not relent in their quest. He admired her doggedness. The dwarf was a trooper.

“There’s one more section we haven’t tried,” Harding said. “Down near the docks.”

Dorian tried to smile. “Lead on, Captain.”

With a respectful nod, Harding led. In the past few days, Dorian had come to understand a few things about Harding. She was good at following orders – if the orders were good. She had a strong moral compass, and a good heart. She was a no-nonsense sort of person, though she had, he’d discovered, a delightfully dry sense of humor. He liked her. A shame, really, that she still worked for the Inquisitor.

The area around the docks was worse. The air full of salt and brine and rotted fish. The wind more bitter, whistling as it sliced through their clothes. Undaunted, Harding continued on her mission, stopping before each pathetic sack of a man that huddled under dirty, ragged blankets against the doorways, in the shadowy alcoves, and against the walls, as Dorian supplied the requisite flicker of flame.

They circled around. Selfishly, Dorian longed to be back at the rather upscale inn they’d selected, based on a recommendation he’d received in Val Royeaux before they’d left. Particularly when one of the hobos reached out one scabrous hand with long, shit-stained nails and pawed at his robes.

Dorian shrank back. “Ugh. How disgusting,” he muttered before he could stop himself.

Harding looked up at him, grim. “Ambassador,” she said. “The General – it’s been over a week since I saw him. He may have moved on already. Or...”

 _Or he’s dead,_ Dorian filled in. Still, he feigned a positivity he didn’t feel. “Is there anywhere we haven’t looked?”

Harding shook her head no.

Dorian reached up a gloved hand, pulling his robes tighter against the chill. Had traveling all the way to Val Chevin been a waste of their time? Were they too late? Was the Inquisition’s ex-Commander dead? And – even if the man were still alive – would they ever have the chance to find him again?

Defeated, Dorian stared into the uninviting dark of the slum’s labyrinth of streets. Cold, tired, exasperated and knowing it was futile, he called out, his voice ringing like a bell in the frosty night air.

“Cullen Rutherford, where _are_ you?”

No one answered the magister’s call.


	2. you are the one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who was kind enough to leave comments and kudos. You're all so nice. I almost feel bad about how I'm going to do my best to rip your hearts out. 
> 
> Almost.

The snow had stopped falling on Val Chevin.

The ex-Templar huddled against the wall of the alley. Cold nipped at his ears and nose. At his fingers in their threadbare gloves. Cold crept into the holes of his boots, the left one with the loose sole held together by an old rag he’d picked up somewhere. The gaps in his memory had been coming at more frequent intervals lately. He couldn’t even remember how he had ended up in this particular place.

He tugged the filthy old fur tighter around his neck. If only he had just a little bit of lyrium, then he wouldn’t feel the cold. Then his hands wouldn’t shake. Then he could chase away the nightmares that lurked in the shadows, waiting to strike.

Still, he was almost nodding off when he heard the crunch of snow under approaching feet, heard the voices.

A man’s voice, rich and deep. Skepticism colored it. “Maker, is that really him? How did you even recognize him?”

A woman replied. “The fur, more than anything.”

He cracked open an eye. Tried to focus on the man who was now leaning down. A hand softly touched his face.

“He’s freezing!” the man exclaimed. “Harding! We must get him out of here.”

The man had dark hair. Bronze skin. A mustache that curled at both ends. And – more importantly – he wore both very fine robes and a staff upon his back, details which were visible by the small conjured flame cupped in his hand.

“Hey, Mister,” the ex-Templar said, his words slurring a bit. “You’re a mage. You got any dust? I’ll do anything.”

The mage’s expression became mortified as the ex-Templar reached out, pawing at his robes as if searching for a hidden vial of the substance he so desperately needed.

“Please, Mister. Just give me some lyrium.” His fingers curled into the mage’s robes as he peered up at him with crusted and bloodshot eyes. “If you want – I’ll suck your cock.”

The mage made a small noise of disgust. Stepping back, he jerked free of the ex-Templar’s grasp. His voice was low, distant, as he spoke to the woman. “Harding... this is awful,” he murmured. “I’m sorry you had to witness this.”

Pain infused the woman’s reply. “It isn’t your fault, Ambassador. There was no way any one of us could have known what had happened to him.”

The ex-Templar stopped listening. He was tired. His hands were numb. _Who are these people?_ He didn’t know. And – if they had no dust or coin to give him – he didn’t really care.

Far in the distance, beautiful holiday music played, a soft, stringed melody carried on the breeze. There was something familiar about it, but he didn’t know what it was.

Then the mage crouched down before him again, speaking too loudly for him to ignore. “You’re coming with us now, Commander,” he said. “We’ll take you somewhere warm.”

He tried to focus on the man again. He didn’t look unkind. “Warm...?”

“Yes, warm. Out of the cold. In a real bed.”

 _A bed..._ perhaps this man did want to make use of him, then. He didn’t care, as long as received his fix. “You got dust, then, Mister?” he croaked. “You’ll give me some?”

“Yes, I... yes, we will give you some dust,” he said. He turned his head to the woman. “Harding – help me.”

They were at either side of him now. Hands on his arms, pulling him to his feet. Unsteady, he leaned against the man, who made another small noise of disgust.

“Ugh,” the mage murmured. “He smells terrible.”

“Just make sure you hold onto him, Ambassador,” the woman said. “I forgot how tall he is.”

“Don’t worry, Captain, I have him,” the man said. “Now, come along, Commander, and you shall have your dust.”

\---------------

Behind the doors of the most opulent suites of the _Grande Taverne,_ the ex-Commander of the Inquisition frothed at the mouth and raged. He wailed and thrashed, his flailing arms knocking one precious lamp, then a rather fine crystal vase, to the floor.

 _“No!”_ he screamed. “No, no, no! Don’t touch me!”

Dorian’s hand was in the air, poised near his head, ready to cast a spell. But what spell? Harming Cullen was the last thing he wanted. But he hadn’t expected the ex-Templar to turn from a docile, desperate beggar into a raving lunatic at the drop of a hat.

Martine spoke sharply over her shoulder as she lifted her mage staff. “Lord Pavus, leave us. I will take care of this.”

Dorian shot a glance at Harding. The solider had taken a defensive stance, hand on knife, tense and ready to spring. When her skittering gaze met his, he beckoned towards the door. Moving slowly, they edged their way backwards, out of the room.

Once in the corridor, Dorian closed the double doors, then collapsed back against the wall, rubbing a hand against the strange pain that had appeared between his brows. “Maker,” he murmured. “That was... unexpected.”

Grim, Harding leaned against the wall opposite him. “It’s the addiction, Ambassador,” she said. “As a mage, you probably know the long-term effects of using lyrium better than I do.”

Dorian did know, of course. The risk of addiction was always there, so the dangers of lyrium were drummed thoroughly into the heads of every young mage in Tevinter. Too much lyrium led to paranoia and obsession. Over time, the line between dream and waking would blur, and an addict would relive his worst memories and fears while awake. Dorian knew enough about Cullen’s past to understand just how horrible that might be.

Suddenly, behind the doors, silence fell.

Harding shifted uneasily. “Ambassador? Do you think everything’s all right?”

Dorian dropped his hand. Stared at the doors. He didn’t know this Martine personally, but she was reputed to be the best healer in Val Chevin. She’d arrived shortly after being summoned. Dorian’s name – if not his coin – had been sufficient to merit a house call at such a late hour.

“I assume Healer Martine used some sort of soothe spell,” Dorian said, not adding, _or knocked the madman unconscious._ He forced a smile. “She did come highly recommended as a healer of great power. I doubt that the Commander could be in better hands.”

Harding folded her hands. Dug her nails into her palms to keep herself from crying, and tried to banish the memory of her commanding officer – the sun glinting off his silver armor and his sword extended in hand, splashing off the leonine helmet he’d worn that day into battle against the bulk of Corypheus’ forces in the Arbor Wilds. Bold and glorious, he’d seemed larger than life. And now...

They waited in silence outside the doors. Dorian was thinking about how lovely a drink – something warm and alcoholic – would be, and then to crawl into a comfortable and welcoming bed, when the doors finally opened again.

The healer stood in the threshold. “Ambassador? I’m ready to speak to you now.”

Dorian stepped into the room, beckoning Harding to follow. The Inquisition’s Captain had been the one to find Cullen. Whatever the healer had to say, Harding had a right to know. Once shut away in the relative privacy of the room, Dorian watched as the other mage stowed her implements away in a pack at the table near the bed where the blond man peacefully lay.

Martine’s dark eyes traveled over the man on the bed. “We can talk here,” she said. “I’ve cast a spell to help him get some much-needed rest. He won’t wake until the morning.”

Dorian’s gaze fell to Cullen. Bathed in the light of the oil lamps, Dorian was able to see him much clearer. The healer had removed some of his rags, revealing the shape of his body. Gone was the muscular build of a seasoned warrior. Instead, this man was gaunt to the point of looking sickly. He was also terribly filthy, his hands and face grimed with dirt. His neglected beard was long enough to touch his chest, and his hair hung in tangled clumps past his shoulders, both matted. Dorian knew that he and Cullen were the same age, but the man before him looked as though he were at least in his sixties. Ancient and wizened like an old hermit who’d spent decades living alone in a cave.

Maker, it really was a wonder that Harding had recognized him. Even now, Dorian still found it hard to believe that this was the same man who’d sassed him from the opposite side of the chess board on those warm afternoons at Skyhold.

“What can you tell us?” Dorian asked.

Martine slowly buckled shut her pack. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your friend’s addiction... it is quite advanced,” she said quietly. “The lyrium has been steadily destroying his brain. This sort of damage is irreversible. And at this rate... I’m sorry, but he won’t last very much longer.”

One of Dorian’s fingers twitched. But his expression and voice remained glossy smooth as a lake of obsidian. “So he’s dying.”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

Dorian exhaled slowly, considering the man on the bed. His gray eyes slid back to the other mage. “What if he stopped using lyrium?” he asked. “He’s done it before.”

Martine paused. But there was no doubt in her mind, so her pause was merely a courtesy. “Your friend is too far gone,” she said gently. “I cannot speak for the state of your friend’s health when he quit lyrium before. However, if he were to be completely cut off now, the shock to his system would most likely kill him.”

Grim, Dorian twisted his rings. “And if we weaned him off?”

This time, Martine’s pause was more thoughtful. “He will die anyway,” she said after a moment’s reflection. “But every drop he imbibes hastens the inevitable. So, if you were to wean him off, it would give him more time.” Before Dorian could speak, Martine cut him off. “However, weaning someone off lyrium is never easy. In fact, it would unpleasant at best, agony at worst. In my opinion, it would be kinder to feed his addiction. Even better? Give him a quick and painless death.”

Dorian glanced at Harding. The dwarf had her hands folded tightly together again, but her face was pain-stricken. Perhaps he shouldn’t have let her come back into the room. _Not to hear this...._

Dorian floated, lost in uncertainty. Cullen Rutherford was dying. Because Dorian had impulsively opted to become involved, Cullen’s fate had now fallen into his lap. And what the healer was asking him was very clear: it was his responsibility to choose the manner of Cullen’s death.

_Vishante kaffas!_

Dorian skirted the room. Stopped before the hearth where he placed one heavy hand upon the mantle.

The women waited while he considered his terrible options. A mercy killing – it wouldn’t need to be so messy as a knife to the man’s throat while he slept. Dorian was a powerful enough enchanter that, if he wished it, he could use a spell to stop a man’s heart. Compared to letting the lyrium consume him, it did seem a kindness.

 _An ignoble death_... no, the Cullen he’d known wouldn’t want that. The Cullen he’d known would have wanted to die on his own two feet, preferably with a sword in his hand. Even if it meant more suffering.

Dorian turned back to Martine. “We will wean him off,” he said. “Do you have any advice?”

Martine nodded. “Yes. I can write down some instructions on what I feel would be the best course for reduction.”

Dorian agreed to that. Then searched through his luggage until he found the ink and parchment he usually carried for correspondence. As Martine explained, she wrote her prescribed treatment down on the page in small, neat handwriting. Once finished, Dorian escorted her to the door where he paid her handsomely.

Shifting her pack over her shoulder, Martine paused to give Cullen one more glance. “Just a few more words of advice, Lord Pavus.”

“Please. Go on.”

“He probably won’t have much appetite. But do try to get him to eat. Start with a liquid diet – juices, water, clear soups. If he tolerates that, then move up to soft, bland foods.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“One more thing – as much bed rest as possible. He will be weak. I don’t even recommend bathing him until he’s much stronger.”

Dorian wrinkled his nose. To let Cullen wallow in his own filth seemed barbaric and cruel. Not to mention the fact that Dorian was the one whose sense of smell would be most offended. He sighed. “Very well,” he said. “Thank you, Martine.”

Martine nodded once to Harding, then to Dorian. “I am at your service, Lord Pavus, should you need me.”

Dorian quietly shut the door behind her. He resisted the urge to press his forehead against the wood with the hope that its solid coolness could somehow ground him to this world, and give him the strength to cope with the tribulations to come. Instead he turned to Harding with what he hoped was a sympathetic expression.

“I think,” Dorian said, “that this would be a rather appropriate moment to drink ourselves into a stupor, stagger into bed, and then deal with all this in the morning.”

\---------------

The morning came sooner than Dorian wanted in the form of a knock on the door of his suites.

Resistant to rise, Dorian rolled over in the linen sheets, warmed by his body, adjusting the pillow on the bolster below his head. Perhaps he had tippled a tad too much last night, but after the healer’s diagnosis, sobriety had lost all its appeal.

As he lay, he heard the sound of the door open. Then voices – one of them Harding’s. The soft rattle of crockery, followed by footsteps, and then Harding was cautiously drawing back the curtain of the bed to peer in. “Ambassador? I took the liberty of ordering us some breakfast.”

Dorian sat up, accepting the cup she held out. Dorian took a sip of the fine, Antivan coffee, then ran a hand through his hair. “Have you checked on him?”

Harding nodded. “He’s still sleeping,” she said. “But I’ll need to leave soon, and I thought it best if one of us were there when he wakes up.”

“I’ll join you momentarily, Captain.”

The curtain fell as Harding withdrew.

Dorian sat for a moment, gathering his wits while he sipped his coffee. Their plans had changed somewhat. Originally, they had intended on returning to the Winter Palace together with the Commander in tow. The Inquisitor had agreed to Harding’s leave of absence for Dorian’s unnamed task, but was expected back by Thursday, which meant they needed to leave today. Except that it had become painfully clear that Cullen was in no shape to travel that short distance, even on the smooth paved road along the Waking Sea. The best course of action – they’d decided before they’d gotten too deep in their cups– was for Dorian to remain in Val Chevin and nurse Cullen back to health until he was fit enough to travel.

Dorian’s small clothes were close at hand. Setting his coffee cup carefully aside, he pulled on his smalls, then slid to the edge of the bed, pushing back the curtain.

Harding sat at the table, buttering toast. Blushing, she averted her eyes as Dorian found and pulled on first his leggings, then his undershirt. It was in this state of half-dress that Dorian joined her at the table.

Harding watched through her lashes as one elegant bronze hand stretched out of the long, white sleeve for a sweet roll. His unbound hair and mustache were both unruly, his clothing almost as simple as a peasant’s, lacking its usual extravagant adornments of feathers, silver buckles and semi-precious jewels. Even so, Harding couldn’t help but admire him. She wasn’t the only woman in the Inquisition who’d harbored a secret crush on Dorian Pavus.

They broke their fast and drank coffee in silence. Though every few minutes or so, Dorian’s gray eyes, unlined by the usual bit of khol he wore, would shift to the door that separated their room from the adjoining one where Cullen slept.

After, Harding sat on the spare pallet where she’d slept last night and packed her knapsack while Dorian quickly performed his daily ablutions and added another layer of clothing. After a few minutes, he stood before her, hair arranged back in its usual tail and mustache waxed into shape, gold rings flashing on his fingers.

“Shall we, Captain?”

Harding nodded.

They passed into the other room. In the bed, Cullen stirred, pulling himself up so that he was sitting, leaning back against the headboard. His eyes fixed on Dorian as the mage crossed the room, then gently eased himself down on the edge of the mattress. “Cullen? Do you remember how you came to be here? What happened last night?”

Cullen’s eyes darted about the room before settling back on Dorian’s face. “Some... some sort of inn,” he said. “And you – you promised me dust.”

 _That voice._ This man may not have looked like the Cullen Dorian had known, but he would have recognized that voice anywhere. “Indeed I did,” Dorian said, withdrawing a small, unbreakable vial from an inner pocket. Within it, the liquid seemed to glow with an unearthly blue light.

In Cullen’s eyes, hunger and madness sparked.

“We’re going to wean you off slowly,” Dorian explained. “Every day, I will give you your dose. Every day, a little less. I will take care of you, but you must promise not to run away, or to do anything foolish, like seek out more. Do you understand?”

What his mind and body craved most desperately was right there before him in the stranger’s hand. Cullen didn’t argue. At that point he would have agreed to slit the throats of his entire family if it meant that he’d get his fix. “Yes, I... I promise.”

Dorian handed over the vial. Watched as Cullen’s shaky fingers fumbled to break the seal, then as Cullen tipped the vial back and gulped the potion down.

Relief washed over the ex-Templar’s face. As his body sagged back against the headboard, the vial slipped from his fingers, rolling down the blanket before coming to a rest near Dorian’s thigh. Plucking it up, Dorian tried to swallow down that flare of self-hatred he felt, knowing that every drop he gave Cullen would only bring him closer to death. Even though he had little other choice.

“Cullen,” he said. “My name is Dorian Pavus. Do you remember me?”

Cullen’s eyes, which had been closed, cracked open, and he regarded Dorian for a long moment with a glazed look in his eye. “No, Mister,” he said finally. “I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

With a touch of dismay deepening the lines around his mouth, Dorian indicated the dwarf hovering behind him. “And Scout Harding – do you remember her?”

Cullen tried to focus. Then shook his head.

“Anything at all about the Inquisition?” Dorian asked. “Surely you remember Inquisitor Trevelyan. Skyhold. Corypheus. _Something.”_

Cullen’s brow furrowed. His eyes were still glazed, causing Dorian to wonder if the man were even capable of forming a rational thought. “No,” Cullen mumbled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Even more dismayed, Dorian bit his lip as he wracked his brain. Surely there was something Cullen remembered. Something _important,_ at least. “Well, then, what about the Templars?”

A small light almost appeared in the man’s eyes. “Men and women in armor. Bright as the sun. Stars falling, falling from their eyes.”

Dorian sat, fretting, still and silent, feeling absolutely appalled. _Maker’s hairy arse, Harding was right,_ he thought, feeling his stomach tighten. _There’s nothing of Cullen left to save. And – stars falling from their eyes? What is that supposed to even mean? Is he mad?_

“Ambassador?” Harding’s voice was soft. “Are you sure that this is something you can handle on your own?”

Dorian turned to consider Harding’s crestfallen expression. _No. No, I can’t,_ he wanted to say. “I suppose it wouldn’t be a terrible idea to hire someone to help look after him.”

Harding stared at Cullen for a long moment. Then she set her pack down on the table before moving to sit beside Dorian on the bed. “This isn’t something you should be doing by yourself, Ambassador,” she said. “He was my commanding officer, and... well, I owe him this much. More.”

Dorian’s eyes lit up at her offer. But then dimmed. “As much as I would appreciate your help, Captain... isn’t Trevelyan expecting you back at the Winter Palace on Thursday?”

Harding thought about her priorities. “Ambassador, I suppose if you were to write to the Inquisitor with some excuse, then, well... there wouldn’t be much he could do about it.”

Dorian considered that. It also meant that the Inquisitor would probably despise Dorian even more – a prospect which enticed him – but also that Harding would be safe from reprimand. He attempted to smile. “I’m sure that finding an excuse would not be difficult, Captain Harding.”

Harding nodded, then attempted a smile in return.

“Call me Lace,” she said.

 


	3. i am lit for.

One night, Dorian dreamed of the Inquisitor.

He didn’t usually remember his dreams. But this one was so vivid, he woke up writhing in the bed, still feeling the weight of Trevelyan’s body against his back, the man’s teeth against his shoulder, the clutch of his strong hands about Dorian’s hips as he thrust deeply inside, causing Dorian to suck in his breath. So vivid he could still feel the ghost of the Inquisitor’s cock moving inside him, and his own member painfully hard, currently trapped between his hips and the feather-down mattress. So vivid, for a moment he couldn’t distinguish dream from reality, like a Templar addicted to lyrium.

He remembered then. Where he was, what he was doing. He rolled over onto his back, hand trailing unthinkingly to his erection below the sheets, stroking it casually, almost absentmindedly. He had no intention of relieving that tension with Lace Harding in the room, much less to the memory of the one time he’d let that bastard Trevelyan fuck him.

Sighing, Dorian threw his arms back over his head. Sex with the Inquisitor – it hadn’t even been what Dorian would refer to as memorable. An itch badly scratched. A curiosity fulfilled. And, in hindsight, a mistake not only to allow himself to have blossoming feelings for the man, but to admit them after they’d had sex. He could still remember the look of disapproval on Trevelyan’s face, and how quickly he’d shattered Dorian’s hopes for more by admitting that he was only looking for some ‘fun.’ Worse, he could still remember the awful, greasy feeling in his chest as he’d made his excuses and left, scooping up clothing from the Inquisitor’s floor and hastily pulling them on, even as he reached the stairs to exit Trevelyan’s well-appointed quarters.

It was after they’d slept together that Trevelyan’s attitude towards him had changed. As if Dorian had suddenly become the target for all of the Inquisitor’s frustrations. And then the situation had only gotten worse when Bull had decided that announcing the fact that Dorian had left some of his silky small clothes in Bull’s room in front of everyone was a _reasonable_ thing to do.

He heard the usual knock on the door. Soft voices. The clink of cutlery. Then Lace, outside the curtain of the bed. “Dorian? Breakfast is here.”

“I’ll be up in a moment,” Dorian said. _Or not,_ he thought as he glanced down at his persistent erection. _Maker, I’m a thirty-four year old man. You’d think I would wake up more than once in a while without a raging hard on._ Dorian wasn’t a fool. He was aware that Lace had always had a little crush on him. A harmless thing, since his preferences hadn’t remained secret for very long at Skyhold. But during the last two weeks in Val Chevin, he and the Captain – with their shared goal of weaning Cullen off lyrium and nursing him back to some semblance of health – had grown quite close. He didn’t want to encourage her.

Which is why he’d developed the habit of keeping his clothes within reach at the foot of the bed, so that he could dress before he opened the curtain.

Once decently attired, Dorian joined the Captain at the table, accepting the cup of coffee she poured for him. For a while they sat in silence, Harding concentrating on her plate while Dorian sipped his coffee slowly, savoring its subtly bitter taste.

Harding’s fork clinked softly against the porcelain. “Dorian? Do you think he’s getting any better?”

Dorian carefully set his cup down. Then he reached up, gathering up his hair in one hand and pushing it back over his shoulder. “I don’t think he’s getting any worse,” he replied. Seeing Harding’s expression, he added, “If you’d like, we could send for Martine. Just to check up on him.”

Harding considered that briefly before nodding in agreement.

As Dorian reached for his cup again, they heard a soft thud that sounded like it had come from the adjoining suite.

In a flash, both Harding and Dorian were on their feet, surging through the door and into Cullen’s room. Dorian’s gaze flashed over the empty bed, then flew around the room until it settled on Cullen, lying on the floor on the opposite side of the room.

Dorian cursed softly as he rushed to Cullen’s side. “What are you doing?” he admonished as he and Harding helped Cullen sit up. Despite having spent two weeks in the ex-Templar’s presence, he still hadn’t become inured to the stench, and it struck his delicate sensibilities like a slap to the face with a shovel. “You’re not well enough to walk yet. You need to stay in bed. And – where were you even going?”

Cullen stared at him blankly for a moment. “I... I don’t know.”

Dorian heaved a sigh. Then glanced at Harding. Reading his signal, she nodded, and the two of them managed to pull Cullen back onto his feet, and guide him, staggering, back to the bed. As Dorian leaned over to tuck him in, he caught another whiff of Cullen’s acidic scent – something familiar underneath the smell of old piss, sea brine, and sweat. That Templar smell – like burnt ozone.

Smoothing down the sheet, Dorian noted that Cullen’s eyes were fixed on him with what appeared to be an uncharacteristic lucidity. Then Cullen turned his face away. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “You’re trying to take care of me and I... I can only cause you grief.”

Dorian bit his tongue. Then he looked to Harding. “Lace? Could you go fetch Cullen’s dose for the day? You know where it is.”

Harding agreed and slipped off. A moment later she returned with the requested vial. By Martine’s instructions, Dorian had been reducing the amount by drops every day. An eight-week course of treatment. Which meant that so far, the dose had only been reduced by approximately one-fourth. _And each drop eats more of his mind and brings him closer to death,_ Dorian reflected bitterly as he watched Cullen greedily gulp the blue liquid down.

As the lyrium began to work, that glazed look overtook Cullen’s eyes.

Dorian lifted his chin towards the dwarf. “Lace? If you wouldn’t mind? Go downstairs and ask the concierge to take a message to Martine. Ask her if she can come tomorrow, if not today.”

As Harding headed out of the room, Dorian sank gently down on the edge of the bed, watching Cullen as he drifted off. Lyrium didn’t normally have a soporific effect, so he wondered if it were related to Cullen’s addiction. Perhaps he would ask Martine later.

Dorian remembered the first time he’d ever laid eyes on Cullen. Dorian had arrived in Haven, and strutted straight into the War Room, interrupting the Inquisitor’s council with his advisers. It had been impossible not to notice the Commander: golden hair meticulously combed back, rugged good looks, tall, and so confidently poised in his armor, both hands on the pommel of his sword. Later Dorian had discovered that they were exactly the same age – give or take two months – though a harder life made Cullen appear slightly older.

Dorian looked down upon the resting man. Once, Cullen had lost his clothes in a bet during a game of Wicked Grace, and Dorian had gotten quite the eyeful during the Commander’s walk of shame. He’d had such a wonderful body – muscular, hale, golden. Now, though... he was barely more than skin and bones. Hardship and weight loss had incised deep lines into his face – at least, what Dorian could see of it – making him look so much older. Despite their coaxing, Cullen still wasn’t able to stomach much food, so if he’d gained any weight, the amount was negligible.

Sighing, Dorian tucked his hair behind both ears as he continued to study Cullen. He hadn’t had a chance to groom yet. Or even eat his breakfast. To be honest, he felt both a bit peeved and more than a bit resentful. He was Dorian fucking Pavus, damn it. Ambassador, magister, leader of the Lucerni, and Lord of Asariel. Not a nursemaid to some milksop that needed to be spoon fed soup and reminded to use a chamberpot. Not for the first time, a thread of doubt wormed its way through Dorian’s mind, and he asked himself why he was pouring his time, resources and energy into such a lost cause.

His own mind echoed out an answer to him: _Because you liked him. Remember, Dorian? That burning torch you carried around for the Commander? How you watched him across the chessboard, flirting with him and hoping that he might be interested in bedding his own sex? Pretending that you didn’t care when Cullen rebuked all your advances and threw himself into his work instead?_

Only once... there had been a promising moment. They’d left the tavern where they’d been drinking with Varric. They’d been talking about one thing or another – the Inquisition, the stars, something Dorian couldn’t remember – then stopped on the ramparts near Cullen’s office. Emboldened by too much dwarven swill, Dorian had placed his hand on Cullen’s. And Cullen...

Cullen hadn’t pulled away. Not _immediately_. Dorian had been hopeful after that, recalling the solid warmth of Cullen’s hand below his, as he trudged behind the Inquisitor through the Exalted Plains. Except that when he’d returned to Skyhold and finally saw Cullen again, the Commander was different. Colder, more distant, and he’d no longer had time for chess. Only later did Dorian find out the reason – that the Inquisitor had ordered Cullen to take lyrium again before they’d left. That Cullen had suffered some sort of crisis, and that Trevelyan had been concerned that his Commander wouldn’t be able to fulfill his duties while in the throes of lyrium withdrawal.

At the time, though, Dorian had just believed Cullen’s distance a result of that drunken night. That he’d been too forward, and that Cullen had rejected him. And then the Inquisitor – with all his sweet words and flattery bright as silver buttons – had happened.

 _No,_ Dorian realized, _not just to me._ The Inquisitor had happened to Cullen, too, by forcing him back onto lyrium. And not only them, the Inquisitor had also happened to Bull, by sacrificing Bull’s Chargers and driving Dorian’s lover back to the _Ben-Hassrath._

Dorian barked a bitter laugh. Was there anything that Maxwell Trevelyan had touched that hadn’t left a trail of destruction and broken men in his wake?

\---------------

With the driver’s help, they’d managed to bring Cullen out of the _Grande Taverne_ without any incident, and the ex-Commander was now safely tucked into the back of the coach, huddled in a sea of blankets against the cold. Though, to be honest, neither Cullen nor Thorn – the elven coachman Harding had recommended, ex-Inquisition and assuredly skilled with a blade – seemed too happy about the long journey ahead.

Harding wasn’t happy either, judging by the expression on her face as they stood on the sidewalk to say their farewells.

Dorian had felt a little stab of guilt when he’d announced his plans. But as soon as Martine had deemed it reasonably safe for Cullen to travel, Dorian had seized upon the idea of fleeing the south and returning to Tevinter like a drowning man. Holed up for three weeks in those rooms nursing a lyrium-sick addict, even with Harding for company – Dorian was certain he was losing his mind.

He hadn’t said any of that. Instead he’d explained that he had responsibilities in Tevinter – which was true – and that if he’d kept Harding much longer, the Inquisitor would most likely send his men to force her back to Val Royeaux – which was also true.

Dorian knew perfectly well what troubled Harding. The healer’s remark of ‘reasonably safe’ had not been made to reassure them. There was the possibility that a journey this taxing would only weaken the man. And should he fall ill on the road, finding a capable healer who was also knowledgeable about lyrium addiction would prove difficult, if not impossible. In a worst case scenario, he might not survive the trip.

 _Survival isn’t in the Commander’s cards,_ Dorian had said, despite knowing how callous he sounded. He then softened it by adding, _Besides, in Tevinter, magic isn’t something that is feared. We have the most advanced techniques in Thedas. If there is a way to save the Commander, I will find it in Minrathous._

Along with Cullen, Dorian’s bags – which he’d had sent from the Winter Palace – were also safely stowed in the coach. Dorian was dressed in his traveling clothes and cloak, the hotel bill paid, his staff in hand, ready to go.

And yet he and Harding were lingering on the sidewalk as the wind whipped the fallen snow sideways into their faces.

Finally Harding stamped her feet once, then gave Dorian a sad smile. “I wish you luck, Ambassador. Do write to me to let me know when General Rutherford...”

 _‘When’ not ‘if’. When he dies._ Dorian forced a smile. “I promise to keep you updated of any changes.”

“Thank you, Ambassador,” Harding said. “Well, I shouldn’t keep you any longer.” She straightened her shoulders, then stuck out her hand. “I wish you luck.”

Dorian accepted the outstretched hand. For a moment they stood, Harding looking up to him with genuine emotion, her gloved hand in his. “Same to you, Captain Harding,” he said warmly. And then he did something rather rare. Tugging on Harding’s hand, he pulled her closer, then bent down to press his lips against hers.

Harding’s heart hammered ferociously like an angry duster and she felt her knees go weak. All warm pressure, the mage’s lips were soft. His mustache tickled where it brushed her skin. Lips parted, warm and lingering. It wasn’t an aggressive kiss full of heat and tongue, but it wasn’t chaste either. It was the sort of kiss from a beautiful man that existed only in fairy tales, or in the dreams of love-struck girls.

This moment was beautiful and perfect.

All too soon, Dorian withdrew. Gray eyes warm as his mouth quirked up into a smile. His voice a soft summery buzz. “Do promise me that you’ll care of yourself, Lace.”

Harding swallowed. Still tried to wrap her brain around the fact that she’d just been _kissed._ By _Dorian Pavus._ Disbelieving it even though she could still feel the ghost of his kiss on her lips. “Be safe, Dorian.”

Harding gave him a crisp salute. Then Dorian watched as the dwarven Captain turned, waiting until her figure grew smaller until it was finally swallowed up in the crowd, before he turned to the coach. From his perch on top, the elven driver’s eyes, blue as cornflowers, sliced across Dorian in a casually interested way that was not very difficult to interpret.

He was fair-haired. Willowy like most elves. Pretty. Perhaps, Dorian supposed, he would have some unexpected, but much-needed diversion on this trip.

Swinging his leg up into the coach, he gave Thorn his order. “Let’s get underway, shall we? It’s a long way to Tevinter.”

\---------------

Three weeks later, Dorian Pavus arrived at his home in Minrathous.

It was one of the more impressive mansions on _Vicus Serico_ , all black stone and stained glass, in one of the more posh neighborhoods of the Gilder Quarter. The house, of course, had been part of the Pavus estate – part of his father’s _fucking legacy –_ though his parents had only used it when they’d needed to be in Minrathous when the Magisterium was in session. Technically, all the family holdings had passed to his mother upon his father’s death, but she’d consented to allow Dorian use of the house in Minrathous. Apparently, the Lady Aquinea had little interest in much beyond malingering at the estate in Qarinus while making her best effort to remain in a state of perpetual drunkenness.

A very real sense of relief washed over Dorian as they pulled up in front of the house. For a moment Dorian’s eyes trailed over the iron gates, the familiar door painted scarlet, the glossy dark green ivy that spiraled tenaciously up over the stone. Then he felt the carriage shift, and heard the slap of Thorn’s boots as the elf jumped down from the driver’s seat.

Dorian turned to Cullen, still huddled in his nest of blankets despite the Tevinter heat. “We’re finally here. House Pavus.”

Cullen leaned forward, gazing out the window with a bit of uncertainty.

Dorian wasn’t surprised when Cullen didn’t say anything. When they’d started this journey, the ex-Commander had rarely been lucid, and far from talkative in his infrequent moments of clarity. Not that there had been much to talk about. After three weeks of traveling while crammed into a small carriage, it had become painfully clear that Cullen’s mind was like Anderfels cheese – all holes. Beyond some disassociated memories of his time with the Templars, there was nearly nothing left. And, even then, a lot of what Cullen said didn’t make any sense.

Dorian put on what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “Well, come along, then. We’ll get you settled in one of the guest rooms.”

Cullen nodded.

 _At least he’s docile now,_ Dorian thought. There had been a few moments during the trip when Cullen had become aggressive, shouting and lashing out as if at some unseen foe. Both Dorian and his driver had found those episodes unnerving. Fortunately, Dorian had been able to calm Cullen down before anyone was hurt, without resorting to magic. More fortunately, as time passed, these episodes had come farther and farther between.

Dorian stepped down out of the carriage. At the back, Thorn was unloading his luggage. Dorian noted that the elf wore his hood up, hiding his ears, though his _valleslin_ were still visible. A habit the elf had quickly formed shortly after they had crossed the border into Tevinter. A moment later, Cullen emerged from the carriage, pausing as his eyes swept up and down the unfamiliar street. Then, at Dorian’s urging, he followed the magister through the gate and up the shimmery pale stone path to the house.

After Martine’s warning, Dorian hadn’t expected Cullen to survive the arduous journey. Yet, not only had Cullen survived, but he’d grown stronger as Dorian had continued to wean him. Nor, given Cullen’s state when he and Harding had found him, half-dead in the snow, to ever be able to move about on his own two feet. Yet, six weeks later, Cullen was able to walk unaided through Dorian’s door.

Their arrival had not gone unnoticed. As they stepped inside, they were greeted in the foyer by a bevy of slaves, as well as Dorian’s secretary, a young elven _laetan_ named Lucius.

As Lucius trotted up, his expression reminded Dorian of that of a faithful mabari who’d been long separated from his master. That changed, however, when the elf’s eyes fell on Cullen. “Welcome home, Lord Pavus. We weren’t expecting you for two more days,” he said. “And – who is this?”

It had not escaped Dorian’s notice how Lucius’ nose had crinkled up in distaste. Rather unsurprising, given Cullen’s appearance of filthy, old beggar who had followed him in off the street.

“This is Cullen Rutherford,” Dorian explained. “He will be our guest for a while.”

As Lucius considered their guest, he reached up one hand to scratch at the dark hair that was gathered in a knot at the back of his neck, looking skeptical. Then his large eyes, dark as pine bark, flicked questioningly back to Dorian. “Then... he’ll be staying in the guest wing? For how long?”

As Dorian’s gaze hardened, Lucius shrank back. He didn’t know why his employer was looking at him with such disapproval. After all, he’d only posed an innocent and perfectly reasonable question.

Dorian shrugged out of his over-garment, which he then handed off to one of the slaves. “Just take care of it, Lucius,” Dorian said irritably. “I’m tired from the trip and I’d like to rest. Meet me in the office in two hours.”

Lucius frowned at Dorian’s retreating back. The magister had never been away from Minrathous for this long before. The elf hadn’t been certain of what sort of greeting Dorian would give him upon his return, but he certainly hadn’t expected to be saddled with _this_.

Turning around, he considered the man who looked like a vagrant. Lucius didn’t know who he was. But, ever since his magic had manifested, he’d always been... _sensitive_ to the forces around him. As he looked at Cullen Rutherford, his senses prickled, and he had a dreadful premonition.

Because of this man, something _very bad_ was going to happen.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone had told me that I would ever write a story in which Dorian kisses a woman, I would have yelled FIGHT ME.
> 
> But it's Harding, so that somehow makes it okay. Dwarf privilege.


	4. Come with your rod

It was with no small sense of relief that Dorian sealed himself up in his bedroom.

Once he’d taken the house over, he’d made minimal changes. The master bedroom, however, was the exception. He’d hired Minrathous’ best interior designer, explained to her exactly what he wanted, and allowed her to perform her magic – in part, literally. The end result was a tasteful, masculine space mostly done in pale shades of gray, with touches of deep, sapphire blue, all clean lines and open space. Thick rugs and silk fabrics softened the room, and tall windows flooded it with light. He had an extravagant wardrobe for his clothes, a large and luxurious bed for sleeping and other nocturnal activities, a private bathroom, and a comfortable chair tucked in one corner for reading. Whenever Dorian wanted to get away from everything, he came here. His inner sanctum. Both Lucius and the slaves knew better than to disturb him once he’d locked himself in.

After he’d freshened up a bit and removed all this rings, Dorian kicked off his boots and lay down on the bed with the intention of a short nap. He’d told Lucius to meet him in two hours time, which was more than sufficient for Dorian to rest and mentally adjust to being in Minrathous again. Lucius could fill him in on anything urgent – the rest could wait until tomorrow. Though perhaps later he’d invite his secretary to his bed. Even before the trip, it had been a while since they’d had sex.

As Dorian sank deeper into the silken pillows, he thought about the elven _laetan_. Dorian had been fortunate in finding him. The elf had proven competent in his role as secretary, loyal to a fault, and kept quiet about Dorian’s affairs. Then, after Bull’s death, when Dorian was at his most lonely and vulnerable, Lucius had been willing to warm his bed. To offer some much-needed comfort.

It was a suitable arrangement. Dorian had always found elves attractive, but he found the idea of using the slaves for sex distasteful. But Lucius, having been freed when his magic manifested, had come to Dorian of his own volition. And, with things being the way they were in Tevinter, both he and Lucius knew better than to expect anything beyond this arrangement. They took pleasure in each other – that was all. Only once, with Bull, he’d had _more._

 _And look how wonderfully that turned out,_ he reminded himself bitterly. _Kadan._

Strange how that thought still pained him so. He let it go. Closed his eyes and tried not to think of anything other than the feel of the downy mattress below his back, the coolness of the air in the room, the faint scent of crushed flowers and citron and cedar.

He’d been lying on the bed, dozing lightly for less than half an hour when chaos erupted.

A flurry of rapid knocks rained down upon his door. Between them, a voice, but not so muffled that he couldn’t hear the urgency in its tone. “Lord Pavus! Lord Pavus, you must come!”

That was Lucius’ voice. Not a slave’s. Which meant that something extraordinary had happened.

Moving quickly, Dorian heaved himself off the bed and crossed the room. On the other side of the threshold, Lucius was wringing his hands, his pretty face even paler than normal, his eyes sharp and feral. And he was out of breath, as if he’d run a great distance.

“Lucius?”

The elf grimaced. “Your guest is... being a problem.”

Dorian didn’t even ask for clarification. “Where is he now?”

“In the kitchens.”

Dorian briefly considered taking one of his magical staffs with him, then discarded the idea. Nor did he stop to put on his boots. In his stockinged feet, he slipped swiftly through the corridors towards the kitchens on the other side of the house, Lucius shadowing him closely.

Dorian had already experienced Cullen’s episodes before, but none of them prepared for the scene he stumbled upon in the kitchens.

Cullen was whirling about, lunging wildly like a wounded animal caught in a trap. Beard wet with spittle as he raged, screaming and shouting garbled and unintelligible words. All across the floor there were things spilled and broken – shards of crockery and glass, an entire bag of flour, a jug of milk, and several tins of tea.

Behind Dorian, Lucius froze. “Andraste’s ass,” he muttered, his voice almost lost in the din. “What’s _wrong_ with him?”

Dorian cast a quick glance at his secretary. Whatever irritation he’d felt quickly drained away as he saw Lucius’ expression. The young man was terrified.

“It’s the lyrium withdrawal,” Dorian explained quickly. “I’ll deal with it.”

Lucius hung back as Dorian stepped forward.

 _“Cullen,”_ Dorian snapped. “Cullen, look at me.”

At the sound of his name, wild eyes jerked to Dorian as the scream died on his lips.

“Cullen,” Dorian continued, speaking now in a hushed, gentle voice meant to calm. “You’re safe here. It was just a dream. Nothing is going to hurt you, I promise. Everything will be all right. You’re safe.”

Dorian kept speaking in this vein. As he continued to murmur his soft assurances, Cullen listened. Eventually, the madness and terror drained from his eyes. For a moment his eyes wandered the kitchens, his hands quaking, looking lost and confused.

Then he staggered back. Reached out to seize hold of the counter before he sank down, defeated, to the floor.

Dorian exhaled deeply, waiting for his heart to stop hammering.

Time drizzled away.

Then Lucius was at his elbow. “Lord Pavus...? Who is this man?”

Although Cullen seemed to have calmed, Dorian didn’t dare to take his eyes off him yet. “He’s an old friend, Lucius,” he said wearily. “One who’s fallen on difficult times. I thought I could...” Dorian trailed off with a heavy sigh. “I don’t know what I thought. That perhaps I could help him somehow.”

Lucius fretted. After nearly three years in Dorian’s employ, he’d become quite attuned to the magister’s moods. This mood... it was bleak, and understandably so. But he also knew that if he let Dorian take advantage of him by dumping this problem in his lap, the magister would do so in a heartbeat.

“Lord Pavus? I can’t help you with this.”

Dorian turned, eying him curiously. “Lucius?”

“Your friend is a madman,” Lucius said. “None of the slaves want to go near him. They’re afraid of what he might do. Especially the girls.”

Dorian cocked an eyebrow.

“Also,” Lucius said, wrinkling up his nose as he gave Dorian a poignant, cutting look, “you need to give him a bath. He smells.”

\---------------

Dorian had no idea how long it had been since Cullen had last properly bathed. _Years,_ he supposed, and it didn’t seem like much of an exaggeration. He had asked Lucius to send a slave to fetch some of Dorian’s old clothes – he and Cullen had possessed a similar build once, at Skyhold – so the Commander would have something clean to put on. Other than that, however, the task of bathing Cullen was entirely in Dorian’s hands.

Once he’d coaxed Cullen off the kitchen floor, Cullen had followed him, docile as a lamb, to the bathroom in the guest wing. It possessed a large square tub of marble in the center of the open room among the white walls and the golden tiles. There was also a vanity, sinks, mirrors everywhere, and a privy privately tucked away behind the corner. Once he’d determined that Cullen didn’t need to make use of the latter, he tapped one of the faucets over the tub, causing magically heated water to gush out, and asked Cullen to undress.

Cullen lifted his hands. The ratty fur stole went first, followed by his jacket. Cullen’s fingers were clumsy with the buttons.

Dorian sank down so he was sitting on the edge of the tub. While he waited, he added a few drops of bath oil and a handful of salts to the water. He’d considered just leaving Cullen alone in the bathroom, but given Cullen’s previous confusion, Dorian suspected that the man wouldn’t be able to manage it on his own. He also suspected that Cullen found his presence somewhat calming. Not surprising considering that he was in an unfamiliar house, in an unfamiliar country, with a dwindling dose of lyrium and all the unpleasant withdrawal symptoms that entailed.

At least Cullen was compliant now. Cullen had always struck Dorian as a private and modest man, so he was somewhat surprised when Cullen stripped off the rest of his clothes and stood naked – without even a hint of shame – before him.

Dorian studied him. He’d known Cullen’s body had become gaunt, but he was still unprepared for how spindly his arms and legs were, and how he could have counted each of Cullen’s ribs if he’d wanted to. Half-starved, wasted. And his body was a map of destruction, covered in both old scars and new. He looked terrible. In fact, the only part of Cullen untouched by trauma was his manhood, pendulous and heavy in an overgrown nest of matted dirty blond curls.

It wasn’t cold in the bathroom by any means, yet Cullen shivered. “Come,” Dorian said with an elegant gesture to the tub. “Get in.”

Cullen approached. Took the hand Dorian offered, steadying himself as he climbed into the tub, then sank down into the perfumed water with a sigh of pleasure.

Dorian tapped the water off. “Feels good, does it?”

Cullen shifted, sinking further down into the water. “It does.”

“Good.” Dorian picked up a bar of lavender soap, and held it out to the blond. “Here. Try to clean your body as best you can. We’ll worry about your hair after.”

Cullen accepted the soap, taking a cautious sniff. “I... all right.”

Dorian waited a moment. Then, satisfied that the ex-Templar was indeed following his instructions, he eased himself up and walked to the pile of discarded clothes. Hesitant to touch the filthy rags, he used just the tips of his fingers to pick up Cullen’s shirt, holding it out before him. Maker, it stank atrociously. Threadbare, full of holes, and stained with sweat and other things he couldn’t – and didn’t wish to – identify.

There was no saving it. With a sigh, Dorian cast a particular little fire spell. Flames engulfed the garment, devouring it quickly in no more than the slightest wisp of smoke, without leaving any ash. Perfunctorily, he repeated the spell with the jacket, small clothes and pants, only hesitating when the fur mantle was in his grasp.

It was the same one. The same fur of the surcoat Cullen had worn over his armor at Skyhold, only it had somehow become unattached to the original garment. The same fur he’d been wearing the first time Dorian had laid eyes on him. In fact, Dorian had rarely seen Cullen without it. He’d thought it ridiculous, almost ostentatious. But he’d become so accustomed to seeing Cullen wearing it, it was as if the fur was _part_ of the man himself. Destroying it almost felt like.... like he’d be destroying some integral part of Commander Cullen Rutherford. Some part of his history. The symbol of the glorious man he once had been.

 _Ridiculous to feel bad about getting rid of this,_ Dorian told himself. It was not only ratty, but tattered, missing large clumps of fur. He very much doubted that it could be repaired by a furrier’s skill, or by magic.

A noisy splash drew him from his musings. “Dorian?” Cullen said. “I’m done.”

Dorian let the detestable article of clothing slip from his fingers back down to the floor. Seated once more at the edge of the tub, he reached for the container of vine ash, licorice wood and vetch.

“We’ll wash your hair now, before you get out of the tub,” Dorian decided. “Lean your head back.”

Cullen complied. Then closed his eyes as Dorian poured the mixture he’d combined with warm water over Cullen’s head. He then did his best to clean Cullen’s hair and scalp, which was no easy feat as his fingers continuously snagged in the many snarls.

Dorian hadn’t trimmed his nails while on the road, so when he raked them across Cullen’s scalp, the blond sighed happily. “That feels good.”

Dorian snorted lightly. “I’m glad one of us is enjoying this.” When Cullen started to twist his head to look at Dorian, the mage admonished him. “Now, now. Hold still. I’m almost done.”

Once Dorian was satisfied that Cullen was as clean as he could be, he instructed Cullen to get out of the tub, once again offering a hand so he wouldn’t slip on the wet tile. He then had Cullen dry off with the towels he’d piled up on the opposite edge of the tub, leaving one across his shoulders and another wrapped about his waist before guiding him to sit upon the chair. Searching the drawers, Dorian pulled out a number of instruments, oils and balms, which he lay in a neat row across the vanity.

Standing behind Cullen, he gently raked his fingers over Cullen’s shaggy head. All knots and tangles, it would be a nightmare to comb out. “Is it all right with you if we cut your hair?”

Cullen was quiet for a moment. Decision making wasn’t really his strong point anymore. He’d learned weeks ago that it was just easier to let Dorian decide everything for him. “It... it doesn’t matter,” he said. “Whatever you think best.”

Armed with a comb and scissors, Dorian set to work. With one bold _snip!_ , he sent the bulk of it slapping wetly down to the floor. Then, circling methodically about Cullen’s head, he clipped off the most heinous of the snarls, while avoiding cutting too closely to his scalp.

Pausing, Dorian studied his handiwork. His scissor work had been mostly even, and now, at least, he’d be able to pass a comb through the wet locks. Within a few minutes, he’d manged to work out the rest of the tangles. Pausing again, he rechecked his work, then spent a few more minutes trying to give it some semblance of style. Not that he was an expert on cutting hair, but he had a good eye and a steady hand.

Eventually, he set the comb and scissors down. Circled Cullen, considering him from all angles. Dorian had left the front of Cullen’s hair somewhat long, the rest short enough to be suitable for a soldier, trimmed off the back of his neck.

“How does it look?” Cullen asked.

Dorian tapped his lips with his fingers. “Well, considering that it screamed ‘hobo’ before, anything would be an improvement,” he said. “However, it could use some styling.”

Cullen watched as Dorian reached for a tin, opened it, then scooped out some sweet-smelling, white, waxy pomade. This the mage applied to his damp hair, combing it back away from Cullen’s face with his fingers.

“Better,” Dorian decided, looking pleased with himself. “Now – the beard.”

He started with the scissors. Sawing his way through years worth of coarse growth. Tracing along Cullen’s jaw, clipping up the sideburns, across the chin, the cheeks, and finally the narrow path between his nose and upper lip. Down to heavy stubble now, Dorian reached for the shaving balm. Smeared it over Cullen’s face and then reached for the razor.

He’d never shaved another man before. It was like shaving himself, but in reverse, and odd because he couldn’t feel the pressure of the blade as it scraped along Cullen’s skin. A hint of worry sparked as he slid the sharp blade over Cullen’s throat – Maker help him if the blade slipped.

Again, he saved the hair over Cullen’s upper lip for last. A swipe of the thin blade clearly revealed the familiar scar that jagged down, just kissing the top of Cullen’s mouth.

Dorian jolted at the memory. Suddenly he was back at Skyhold, on the battlements, his hand on Cullen’s. How he’d stared at Cullen’s scar, longing to trace it with his thumb, then his tongue, right before continuing the trail around the edges of Cullen’s fine lips.

Dorian silently admonished himself. That thought wasn’t going to lead anywhere good. It was dangerous, threatening to cut too close to the bone. The Cullen Rutherford who had been his friend – the man he’d _liked_ and perhaps wanted once, years ago – that man was _gone._

Dorian had convinced himself of that. Except now, he wasn’t so certain as he drew back and stared down at the man sitting in front of him.

The old Cullen Rutherford stared back.

Dorian reconsidered. No, time had not been kind to him. He no longer looked like an old man, or a vagrant, but he still looked far older than he should have. Gaunt was his face, with deep hollows between the bones, and deeper lines on his brow, around his mouth and eyes. Not so handsome anymore – if Dorian had passed him in a crowd now he probably wouldn’t have looked twice.

“Is that...” Cullen began, struggling for words. “Is something wrong?”

Dorian forced a smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you clean-shaven before,” he said lightly. “Quite a shock. Would you like to see?”

Cullen pondered over that most seriously. Then he nodded.

Dorian coaxed him up, then turned him towards the mirror.

Cullen stared at his reflection for a long time. He almost didn’t recognize himself with his hair short and swept back and without the beard. He looked like a different man. A younger man.

 _I was a young man once,_ Cullen thought. He’d commanded armies in another life. Been a Templar. Helped save the world. That’s what the mage had told him. But he didn’t remember any of that. He didn’t even remember anything about the man who now took care of him, the Tevinter magister with the dust. Dorian Pavus.

His eyes shifted in the mirror, meeting Dorian’s. “Why are you doing this for me?”

Dorian became thoughtful. His expression tinged with sadness, briefly, before he offered a gentle smile at Cullen’s reflection, his tone light as air.

“Because someone has to,” he said.

\---------------

“Can you imagine if we actually abolished slavery?” the blond woman said, settling more comfortably on the divan in Dorian’s office, and holding her cup out to be replenished. “Not in our generation, certainly, but perhaps the next.”

Dorian gracefully took the cup, refilling it and then preparing the coffee with cream and two spoons of sugar – just the way Mae liked it – before handing it back to her. “I’d be happy if we could just keep the Qunari off our doorstep. Bloodthirsty savages, the lot of them.”

Maevaris Tilani smiled over the rim of her cup. “Ironic of you to say.”

Dorian leaned back, thinking of Bull. The mercenary been different back when they’d first met. Before Trevelyan had sacrificed the Chargers. That’s when things had changed. And yet Dorian – who’d been closer to Bull than any other person – hadn’t even _realized_ that Bull had gone back to the Qun. Bull had acted the same. Pretended that he didn’t care.

After the council, when he’d returned to Tevinter, Dorian had stowed the dragon’s tooth necklace away in a box. He hadn’t looked at it since. He couldn’t.

At the time, Dorian had tormented himself with the following questions: _Did he even love me at all? Or was it just part of his cover as a_ Ben-Hassrath _spy?_

Even now, he still didn’t know the answer.

Dorian picked up his own cup, but didn’t drink from it, thinking about the Lucerni. He and Mae were talking in circles again. Always the same discourse on how to best restore and redeem Tevinter in the eyes of Thedas. In the past two years, their supporters had grown substantially, far more than they had initially dared to hope.

“Interesting, isn’t it?” Dorian said. “Living here in Minrathous, we fool ourselves into thinking we’re safe from a Qunari invasion. At the rate things are going, they won’t be coming from the north, Mae – they’ll march in from Nevarra once they’ve conquered the _south.”_

Maevaris tapped her fingers thoughtfully against her cup. Then she smirked. “I don’t think you give the ‘barbarians’ enough credit, honeyheart. As you’ve said, they’re very ‘scrappy.’”

Dorian chuckled softly. “That does sound like something I might have said.”

“Speaking of barbarians...” she said slowly, with a glint in her eye, “how are things going with your Commander?”

“To be honest, I’ve been so busy since my return, I’ve barely had a moment to see him.” Dorian gave her a poignant look. “Whose fault could that be, I wonder?”

“Don’t blame me,” Maevaris said. “You’re the one who ran off for nearly five months. Problems tend to pile up when you neglect them.”

“But I left them in such capable hands.”

“Flatterer,” Maevaris said with a sly smile. “But if you’ve been neglecting your guest – what does he do with himself all day? You’ve been back for – what? Three weeks?”

“Puzzles,” Dorian said. At Maevaris’ perplexed expression, he clarified. “Apparently the Commander spends most of his free time constructing jigsaw puzzles. One of the slaves unearthed one of these puzzles in the game room and gave it to him. It’s one of the few things he can actually focus on. For hours at a time, I’m told.” Dorian paused, then added, “I sent one of the slaves out to scour Minrathous for more.”

“Perhaps,” Maevaris said pensively, “it’s symbolic. A way for him to put together all the pieces in a way that makes sense.”

Dorian’s lips twitched into a smile. “Perhaps.”

The conversation then shifted to more innocuous topics – recent parties, married magisters who were having affairs, the latest fashion trends in Qarinus. After a half hour or so, Maevaris made her excuses, kissed Dorian at the door, and sailed away in a swirl of chiffon and silk, leaving only her lipstick on Dorian’s cheek and a cloud of perfume behind.

Shutting the door behind her, Dorian leaned against it, stroking a hand absentmindedly over his chin. It was true that he’d been neglecting Cullen somewhat. For the first two weeks since their arrival in Minrathous, Dorian had continued to visit Cullen’s room every morning to give him the requisite diminishing dose of lyrium. Occasionally, when Dorian’s schedule permitted it, they dined together. There had been a few episodes of erratic behavior, but nothing as violent as the one which had upset the kitchen staff. The slaves were still skittish around the man, but his improved appearance had warmed them a little, so now Dorian could have one of the slaves fetch Cullen for him.

And now, one week had passed since Cullen’s last dose.

It occurred to Dorian that he had no pressing matters to attend to – no appointments, no meetings, and no social obligations – for the next few hours. He decided that now would be a good time to check on his guest.

He didn’t find the ex-Templar in the game room. However, a short search brought him to the back of the house, where he found Cullen seated upon one of the stone benches among the rose trellises, just past the veranda.

Cullen perched, arms resting on his knees, hands clasped between them, seemingly staring off at nothing, his expression grim.

As he’d promised Harding, Dorian had called upon the most renowned healers in Minrathous about Cullen’s case. One had impressed him – a woman named Lilia of House Petalis, from one of the better known noble families of Vyrantium. Her esoteric knowledge of healing magic was formidable, and Cullen’s predicament had sparked the fire of academic interest in her. She had approved of Martine’s course of treatment, and had promised to research a cure – though the physical effects of the lyrium damage were most likely irreversible.

It was a small hope that Cullen might live. Dorian did not dare to cling to it.

“Cullen...?” Dorian ventured. “Are you all right?”

Cullen glanced up. His eyes were haunted, but lucid. His writhing hands convulsed like frightened spiders. “I... this,” he began weakly. “I cannot... it isn’t...” Trailing off, Cullen buried his face in his hands with a soft groan. “Dust. I just need another dose. To... calm my nerves.”

Heavyhearted, Dorian gathered up his robes and sank down upon the empty space on the bench beside him. “You know you can’t,” he said quietly. “The cravings will pass. You must simply... endure it.”

Cullen lifted his head. His expression forlorn. “You can’t understand what it’s like. You haven’t lived it. The things I see... that I feel...”

Dorian was silent. He couldn’t know Cullen’s suffering, he knew that. But he’d made his decision. He wouldn’t be responsible for hastening Cullen’s death.

“You quit before,” the mage said. “I know you can do this.”

Cullen suddenly pushed up from the bench. His pacing was almost frenetic, his hands jerking and twitching. “I don’t remember!” he cried out, voice thick with anguish. “I don’t remember anything!”

Cullen’s frantic movements were enough to set Dorian on edge. He drew in a deep breath. “Nothing? Nothing at all?”

Cullen came to a standstill. He stared out into the garden, wracking his brain for _something._ _Anything._ But his past was a slate, mostly empty but for fragments that seemed like scraps of dreams. As soon as he tried to seize onto a memory, it eluded his grasp, dissipating like smoke in the air.

“Just... bits and pieces... flashes...” He growled in exasperation. “I don’t even know who I am! Where I came from... my family... if I have a middle name!” He stared down at Dorian, his eyes desperate and pleading. “What am I supposed to _do?”_

Dorian wanted nothing more than to stand up. To gather Cullen into his arms and offer what comfort he could. He resisted that urge. “You came from a village called Honnleath,” he said quietly. “You have two sisters and one brother – I’m sorry, but I don’t remember their names.”

Cullen stilled, listening.

“Your middle name I do remember – it’s Stanton. Cullen Stanton Rutherford. They called you the Lion of Ferelden.”

Dorian’s voice – it was almost hypnotizing. Cullen remained motionless, still listening.

“As for who you are and what you do... well, to put it simply, you were a soldier. You fight.”

 _You fight._ Those words echoed around and around in the empty space which was Cullen’s head. He could remember the feel of a sword in his hand – but _what_ sword? Where? And how long ago?

 _Before the dust._ He knew this much: the dust had taken everything from him – his past, his mind, his ability to fight and defend.

Defeated and empty, he sank back down onto the bench next to Dorian.

“No,” he croaked. “I’m a broken man.”

Dorian glanced away. In his lap, he twisted his rings. When he spoke again his voice was soft, almost distant, and thin. “We are all broken men here,” he whispered, thinking of the damage Trevelyan had inflicted upon them all. “That bastard _– he’s_ the one who broke us.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do jigsaw puzzles exist in Tevinter? Umm... sure, why not. They are made with magical jigsaws. Just... work with me here. Suspension of disbelief or something. My friend Pixie *points finger* said I could.
> 
> Thanks to hirrient who helped me flesh out Lucius and also insisted that I had to include a "sweet makeover scene". I hope I made your pretty little teeth rot.


	5. that twists

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

Memories haunted his dreams. Nightmares ravaged his waking hours.

The worst were those dreams – _memories?_ – in which he was trapped in an invisible prison. He was chained by magic, helpless and useless, listening to their terrible _screams._ Forced to watch his friends die horrifically, unable to stop it. Smears of blood of the ground, the sick crack of bones snapping, the snuffling of muzzles rooting around among their innards. Finally they turned on _him._ Sharp blades tore ragged holes in his flesh, his mind and body subjected to rape and other unspeakable abuses, over and over he was dismembered, disemboweled, left bleeding and broken. These nightmares caused him to cry out in his sleep, thrash around in his bed or wake up in a blind panic, soaked in sweat and with his heart pounding in his throat.

 _Not... real..._ Cullen tried to convince himself that _this_ was reality: he was in a luxurious bed, in a beautiful room, in an opulent mansion in Tevinter, fed and sheltered and cared for by a kind man. That he was _safe._

The cravings still came and went, washing through him like angry waves of a dark sea, filling him with desperate need, and leaving him wrung out like a dirty mop, with cold hands and a sick sensation at the pit of his very soul. He had to suffer through them – if Dorian had any lyrium locked away in the house somewhere, he had hidden it well, for Cullen, driven by his need to search for it, had never stumbled upon a drop of it. He had no other choice – he endured.

Being off lyrium brought changes. He was healing quicker now, and felt less fatigued and stronger than he had before. His appetite had returned, and he’d begun to put on some much-needed weight. And another hunger had returned, in the form of erotic dreams of almost formless bodies that caused him to wake hard and aching for release. That, at least, was better than the nightmares that usually plagued his nights.

His memory, however, was not improving. Cullen was aware that there was something wrong with his mind. Frequently he would find himself in a room, unable to remember why he was there. He had trouble making new memories, and couldn’t recall the names of the other people in the house, or what year it was, or things that Dorian had told him only five minutes before. Sometimes he would ask Dorian the same question over and over again because he’d forgotten not only the answer, but the fact that he’d even asked it.

One thing Cullen did know was how he felt about Dorian Pavus. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt inexplicably protective of Dorian – Cullen didn’t want to see him hurt. He supposed it was because the Tevinter mage was his savior and all. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had treated him with kindness. He wished he had someway to repay Dorian. Mostly he wished he could find that man – _that bastard_ who had broken Dorian – and break him back.

Cullen’s feelings became more complicated when he inadvertently stumbled upon Dorian and his secretary one afternoon in the office.

Cullen had been walking down the corridor towards the kitchens when he’d heard a strange noise. Uncertain, he’d slowed his pace, listening carefully. Then he’d heard the noise again, coming from Dorian’s office: a man’s low, throaty moan.

Cullen stopped almost instinctively just before the room. The door was slightly ajar, allowing the sounds from within to escape out into the hall. There was a gasp, and then he heard Dorian’s pleased, dark chuckle, followed by the mage’s sultry voice.

“You like that, don’t you, Lucius?”

There was a hitch in the elf’s voice. “Maker, Dorian... stop teasing me and just get on with it.”

This time, Cullen felt Dorian’s dark chuckle reverberate up his spine. “You impatient little beast,” Dorian murmured teasingly. “Perhaps I’m not done playing with you yet.”

Curiosity compelled Cullen to take a quiet step forward, then press his eye to the crack in the door.

He couldn’t see much, but the men were in his line of sight. Dorian’s secretary had his back to the wall, his hand down the front of Dorian’s unlaced pants, elbow jerking as he moved his hand up and down. Bottom lip caught in his teeth, his head was thrown back, granting Dorian access to his neck, which Dorian was covering with nips and kisses as his own hand made similar movements under the elf’s robes.

With an animal sound, Lucius fisted his fingers into Dorian’s unbound hair, twisting the mage’s head back to meet his eyes. “Fuck me, Dorian,” he demanded, his voice half hiss. _“Now.”_

Dorian’s grin was wolfish, almost wicked. _“Malus puer,”_ he murmured. “Give me that sweet ass of yours.”

Withdrawing his hand, Dorian then seized the elf by the shoulders, forcing him to turn around before Dorian shoved him back up against the wall, this time face first. Next, he seized a handful of the back of Lucius’ robes, pushing them up and out of the way.

 _Maker’s breath, they’re having sex._ It occurred to Cullen that it was wrong to be watching this. He meant to slip away quietly, but when he turned, he bumped straight into one of the elven slaves whom he hadn’t noticed coming down the hall.

Both of them startled, and the slave girl dropped the basket of linens she’d been carrying in her arms.

From inside the office came muffled noises, hushed voices. Thinking wasn’t Cullen’s strong point, so he didn’t consider fleeing until Dorian had opened the door and it was too late.

Dorian’s hair was still loose, though swept back over his shoulders, his clothes in perfect array, and his expression calm to the point of indifference. Glancing past Dorian, Cullen saw Lucius standing in the middle of the office, with his arms crossed over his chest and a slight scowl contorting his face as he openly glared at the intrusion.

Dorian’s eyes swept coolly over them as the slave girl hastily retrieved her basket and then scurried away. “Did you need something, Cullen?”

Cullen felt a warm heat rush to his face. “I... no, I...” he stammered. He took a step back, out of Lucius’ line of sight. “Forgive me. I... I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Dorian’s lips tightened into a thin line as Cullen fled.

\---------------

Early afternoon sunlight filtered through the windows of Dorian’s office, casting slanted squares across the hand-woven flatweave rug from Nerominian.

Dorian had never liked this rug. Oh, there was nothing wrong with it _per se_ – slate gray with a cream pattern, the colors were tasteful and unoffensive. Perhaps he disliked it for the memory it evoked – Dorian standing in the office, staring down at it while his father reprimanded him after he’d been expelled from the Order of Argent. Dorian had found their rigorous religiosity exhausting, and was relieved when they’d finally given him the boot. Unlike this father.

The relationship between Dorian and his father had always been... _problematic,_ at best. Bull had tried to be sympathetic, but being raised under the Qun, without a family, he couldn’t understand the _complexities_ of Dorian’s feelings. Halward’s attempt to change Dorian with blood magic had irrevocably broken the trust between them, yet on some level Dorian had still longed for the man’s approval. Even now, leading their country from his inherited seat in the Magisterium, Dorian still caught himself wondering if his father would be proud of him.

If anything, in the past two years, Dorian recalled his father with more fondness than he’d imagined possible. Funny how much easier it was to forgive the dead than rebuild broken bonds with the living.

“Lord Pavus...?”

Drawn back to the present moment by his secretary’s voice, Dorian realized that he’d let his thoughts wander. “Read that last bit back to me, Lucius.”

The elf dutifully recited the last two lines of the letter Dorian had been dictating.

As far as Dorian was concerned, he spent too much time on correspondence, both in his role as Tevinter ambassador and as one of the leaders of the Lucerni. Added to that, he had a vested interest in the Inquisition’s business of rooting out Solas’ spies. He was still convinced that – someday – Trevelyan would come to him. And that Dorian would be able to make use of the man to satisfy his own Tevinter agenda. So he had his own agents – some paid, some voluntary – quietly gathering what information they could.

Still, he’d become an expert of written communication, so he was able to wrap up the task quickly. Once he’d finished, he dismissed Lucius for the day.

Dorian sat behind the desk for a moment, thinking. He’d been intending to write a personal letter to Lace Harding, to update her on the state of the Commander’s health. But with all his various obligations, he hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Briefly, he considered penning her a quick note.

Except... he wasn’t quite certain what to say. Since he’d caught Cullen spying on him and Lucius three days ago, Cullen had been avoiding him. Whenever they happened to encounter each other by chance in the halls, Cullen had quickly disentangled himself from the conversation and hurried away. The only meaningful exchange they’d had was Cullen awkwardly blurting out that he wished he had a sword. Seeing no reason to refuse, Dorian had sent one of the slaves to the market to find the best long sword available for immediate purchase, along with a shield like the one Cullen used to have, whose dimensions and shape Dorian had sketched out from memory. Two hours later, the weapon dealer’s man had delivered the goods.

Dorian pondered this change in Cullen’s behavior. He had no illusions about the reason _why_ the ex-Templar’s attitude towards him had changed. This Cullen was no longer the same man who had once – rather politely, truth be told – rebuked nearly all of Dorian’s advances. This Cullen was more animal instinct than civilized man. Dorian had given up long ago worrying about what other people said about him. However, he refused to be treated as if his sexuality were some sort of sick _perversion_ in his own house, and – given Cullen’s avoidance – as if it were contagious.

Decided, Dorian rose from his desk and went to seek out his guest.

Once again, he found Cullen behind the house, past the veranda. The blond stood in the small clearing towards the property’s perimeter, feet in a fighting stance, making movements with the sword that – to Dorian’s untrained eye – seemed graceful. _Muscle memory,_ he supposed.

“Cullen.”

The blond turned. Seeing Dorian, he lowered his sword. His light brown eyes – the color of clover honey in the bright afternoon light – were sharp and lucid. Sweat glistened on his face and neck and caused the thin fabric of his tunic to cling wetly to him. “Yes?”

“I would like to speak to you,” Dorian said. “Meet me in my office in an hour.”

\---------------

Cullen mentally clung to Dorian’s command so he wouldn’t lose it.

It didn’t occur to Cullen to question it, much less say no. With everything that Dorian had done for him, to refuse the magister anything would have been unthinkable. Even so, Cullen wanted to do more than be a burden on the man. Cullen had been a soldier once. He’d spent most of his life protecting people. If taking up the sword again meant that he could be useful by keeping Dorian safe, then he would try.

Freshly washed and wearing clean clothes, Cullen arrived punctually in Dorian’s office.

Dorian was standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back. As Cullen entered, Dorian turned, then sauntered towards the desk. “Close the door, please.”

Cullen did as he was bid. Then waited as Dorian’s gaze silently drank him in. “You... wished to speak to me?”

Dorian leaned back against the desk, lifting a hand, fingers fluttering around his chin. “Yes, I feel like we need to clear the air,” he said. “About what you saw. Between myself and Lucius.”

 _Lucius..._ he meant the dark-haired elf. “Clear the air...?”

“Yes. Clear the air,” Dorian repeated, his words brusque. “You clearly had some thoughts about it.”

 _Oh._ _So that’s what this is about._ Except that Cullen found words troublesome sometimes. And putting his feelings – complex, conflicted, confusing things – into words seemed impossible. Yet that seemed to be what Dorian wanted, which meant he had to try.

Uneasy, Cullen began to pace the length of the rug between Dorian and the sitting area arranged on the opposite side of the large, heavily lacquered desk. “I didn’t realize that you and he were...”

Dorian waited as Cullen trailed off, then came to stop, resting one hand on the back of the divan and scratching absentmindedly at the fabric.

“Oh,” Dorian said, his tone completely flat. “Yes, I prefer the company of men. I suppose you forgot that, as well.” Dorian paused, studying Cullen closely before his lips twitched up in a bitter smile. “Well, now you know what I am, Commander.”

An image, unbidden, flashed in Cullen’s mind. Some memory, long lost, unexpectedly triggered. Dorian sitting across from him, all leather straps and buckles, smirking, sunshine, green space, blue sky. Along with the image, Dorian’s velvety voice echoed.

_Are you sassing me, Commander?_

Cullen’s fingers tightened their grip on the back of the sofa. He often suffered bursts of memories like this, disjointed eye-blink flashes that made little sense out of context, but they were usually unpleasant, and none of them had been of Dorian before. He stared at the mage, nearly stunned by the revelation.

“You and I...” Cullen said. “We played chess together. We were friends.”

Dorian’s restless hand suddenly stopped moving. _How curious,_ he thought. But he felt a surge of warm pleasure that Cullen had finally remembered him.

Cullen’s gaze slithered away, sweeping across the room as if seeking some answer to an unasked question. After a moment, the light brown eyes crept back to Dorian. “Were we... more than that?” Cullen asked. “More than... friends?”

The question had been asked so openly, so innocently, that it had caught Dorian off-guard. Briefly, he flustered, eyes averted, before he raised his gaze and cleared his throat. “No,” he admitted. “But not for my lack of trying.”

Cullen stared at him for a long time. Dorian stared back.

“Well,” Dorian finally said. “I suppose we ought to just –”

Whatever words Dorian had intended to say died on his lips as Cullen closed the distance between them with two rapid strides, and put his hand on Dorian’s face.

Surprise rooted Dorian to the spot. For a few brief seconds, Cullen’s eyes were level with his, then the ex-Templar dipped his head. Then Cullen’s mouth, wet and hot, brushed against Dorian’s neck.

At the contact, Dorian gasped softly. It was as if there were a nerve in his body that directly connected that sensitive spot just below his ear that Cullen was now exploring with his lips to Dorian’s groin.

He’d pictured this before. Something to stir the imagination on lonely nights where his hand was his only company at Skyhold, before Trevelyan, before Bull. But back then, Cullen had been a healthy man in his right mind. Now, Cullen was broken. Whatever Cullen’s intentions, Dorian knew that he should stop it now. Except he couldn’t manage more than a breathy protest. “Cullen... what are you doing?”

The pressure of Cullen’s fingers increased, palm insistently nudging, tilting Dorian’s head back and to the left. Shifting his own head, Cullen’s kissed a trail down the other side of Dorian’s neck.

 _Uh._ Dorian moaned softly as Cullen’s lips continued to glide, feather-light and warm, over his skin. He resisted the urge to reach for the blond, instead keeping his hands, fingers flexing, safely at his sides. Still knowing that he should stop this before it went too far.

Except then Cullen was pushing up against him. Hips grazed over hips, hand on his shoulder, forcing him back half a step. Dorian bumped gracelessly into the desk, both hands grabbing onto its hard edge to keep his balance. Cullen’s fingers trailed once, languidly, across Dorian’s mouth before the ex-Templar leaned in, replacing his fingers with his lips.

Something happened when Cullen Rutherford kissed him.

It was like a sudden burst of Spring in the mountains, a rush of warm air over his skin, sweet flowers sprouting in his mouth. He could taste the stars on the tip of Cullen’s tongue, the cool glitter of a thousand hopeful wishes. He could feel the strands of fate entwined in the gaps between their fingers, holding them fast and close. He could hear the ocean echoing inside his heart, a forgotten melody that danced across his ribs.

The kiss was all too brief. Almost as soon as it had started, Cullen was drawing back, his gaze searching, seeking a reaction, a sign, permission to continue.

 _That kiss._ Dorian had never experienced anything quite like it. Trevelyan’s had been playful, sensual, teasing. With Bull, it had been rough as first, though with time, his lover’s kisses had become both tender and passionate. This, on the other hand, was something different. The sort of kiss that made him forget himself, that filled some aching, empty abyss that he kept inside, a soft, sugary delight that smoothed down old hurts as if by magic.

That alone set warning bells ringing through his head. He should have run screaming from the room. Or at least shoved Cullen away. But he’d always wanted Cullen. For months he’d burned his secret little torch for the Commander, dreaming of him and longing for him on those cold, lonely nights. _Wanting, wistful, wondering._

Even if the alarm bells hadn’t been ringing, Dorian didn’t know what was happening here, exactly. Did Cullen even know what he was doing? He seemed perfectly lucid. Dorian was aware that one of the many side effects of quitting lyrium was an increase in libido, so he wondered if this was only an itch the ex-Templar needed to scratch.

Dorian searched for an answer only briefly. Foolish of him, but – even if were just a folly, a physical need for sexual release, a one-time fling – Dorian wanted whatever Cullen was offering.

Dorian leaned forward to return the kiss.

It felt the same as before. That sweet rush of feelings all blending together like a symphony as Dorian’s lips pressed against his. An answer to an unspoken question in the form of breath, warmth, pressure and palpable _need._ For an endless moment, Dorian was lost in Cullen’s kiss.

Drawing back, his eyes darted over Cullen’s. Penetrating, seeking. Granting permission, inviting. _Need._

Then both of Cullen’s hands were on Dorian’s face. Drawing him back in. More kisses, tinged with the heat of hunger, the desire to devour, languid and lush, pausing only to suck in air. Dorian’s breath was rapid and shallow as Cullen’s body leaned into his.

 _Maker._ He could feel the hardness and warmth of the blond man against the length of his body. So thin, yet there was something inviting and real about him. Dorian’s hands slid up, fingers curling and clawing into Cullen’s broad shoulders as Cullen’s mouth, more insistent now, trailed down Dorian’s jaw to his neck again. Cullen’s hands fell to his hips almost naturally, keeping him close.

Dorian squeezed his eyes shut, moaning softly. “Cullen... yes...”

His words, both encouraging and provocative, had an effect on the ex-Templar. Cullen’s hands slithered up, insinuating themselves into Dorian’s clothes, unbuttoning, pulling, opening. Fingers moving fabric aside, sliding over skin. Dorian gasped as Cullen’s hand skimmed down his chest, then, as Cullen placed a kiss below Dorian’s collarbone, Dorian twined his fingers into Cullen’s hair, curling and still slightly damp, breathing hard as his head lolled back.

He tightened his grip on Cullen’s head as the blond’s mouth slid, sweet and hot and hungry, across his skin. Then released him as Cullen’s hands hooked under his thighs, lifting and pushing Dorian up onto the desk. The mage murmured his approval as Cullen’s mouth moved across his chest, tongue flicking purposefully over his nipple.

“Cullen... Maker, don’t stop...”

Cullen shifted, leaning in. His hands on Dorian’s knees, spreading the mage’s legs open. One hand squeezing Dorian’s thigh as the other trailed up and came to rest between them.

 _Maker, this,_ Dorian thought as Cullen’s hand began to slowly slide up and down, stroking his erection that strained against the fabric.

“Dorian,” Cullen murmured, all hot breath into Dorian’s ear. “I want...” he began, then trailed off with a shudder.

“I know,” Dorian said, then gasped in anticipation as Cullen’s fingers fell upon the laces of Dorian’s pants, tugging them open. Then Cullen brushed his lips once more across Dorian’s before he dropped down to his knees, hands on Dorian’s hips.

Dorian blurted out a curse as he felt the heat of Cullen’s mouth on his cock through the thin silk of his small clothes. Bit back another curse as Cullen’s teeth grazed down his hard length. Any concern Dorian might have had about taking advantage of Cullen had flown straight out the window. If anything, the ex-Commander was taking advantage of _him_.

 _And to think I actually once wondered if Cullen were possibly a virgin,_ Dorian mused. And when Cullen pulled Dorian’s small clothes down and began to enthusiastically suck his cock, Dorian had never been so happy to be so wrong.

\---------------

But for one magical glowstone, the room was dark.

Cullen, leaning up on one elbow, looked down at the man sleeping next to him. In the dim, the white sheet was almost dingy gray, but still bright against the shadowed hollows of Dorian’s body and his lovely bronze skin. His hair was a rich dark thicket, a spill of branches across the pillow, his eyelashes a spray of dusk, his breathing steady and deep.

Cullen gently swept a stray lock of hair back from Dorian’s cheek. Maker’s breath, he was such a beautiful man. And so very skilled in bed. At some point, Dorian had suggested that they retire to the bedroom to finish what they’d started in the office. As if drunk, they’d stumbled through the corridors, touching and kissing, until they’d reached their destination. Once they’d tumbled down to Dorian’s bed, they’d spent hours there, tangling the sheets as they explored each others’ bodies with hands, eyes, and lips, ravishing each other with kisses and caresses, stroking, sucking and fucking.

They’d stopped so that Dorian could arrange to have the kitchens send up some food. Draped in Dorian’s loose silk and velvet-trimmed dressing gowns, they’d sat on the bed, laughing as they fed each other bits of food – smears of strawberries, dollops of cream, crumble of hard cheese between Cullen’s teeth, tart tingle of olives, all washed down with sweet red wine. Then, once they’d set the tray aside, they’d started up again.

Sex with Dorian... it was so different than the things he’d done for lyrium. He’d derived no pleasure from the acts he’d performed, only a handful of coin and a lingering sea of shame, sloshing deep inside him, a sensation that could only be erased by the sweet obliteration that only the dust could provide. And before the lyrium.... any lovers he’d had, he couldn’t remember.

Before lyrium. When he’d still had a purpose. A purpose told to him by other people, one that he couldn’t remember.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit: The description of the kiss was blatantly appropriated from a [poem](http://quondam-dreams.blogspot.com/2012/05/someone-asked-me-what-home-was-and-all.html%20) by poet Elizabeth Corn.


	6. and is a serpent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is probably the quietest in the story. Or, shall we say, the calm before the storm.
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who has left kudos and comments! You all warm the black, bitter scraps which are the remains of my tattered heart. <3

Unforgiving morning sunlight filtered through the curtains.

Dorian woke first. Still floating in the haze of sleep, he was only half-aware of the body beside him, the weight of sprawled limbs – a heavy arm across his waist, a leg across his – and the tickle of warm breath against his neck. Flesh, hot against his, causing him to feel decadent and lazy.

Wakefulness encroached and he remembered. The man whose arms he was entangled in was Cullen Rutherford. Eyes open, he considered Cullen. So close, his face looked strange. Dorian shifted slightly to get a better look. Yes, Cullen – with the stubble that had sprouted almost overnight, mostly dark blond with a smattering of premature gray, hair mussed and falling over his brow etched with lines, and the familiar scar that jagged across his lip.

He’d been so handsome once. Dorian could recall those days, and still trace the lines of beauty that had once been Cullen’s face. It was true that he’d always be drawn to beauty. He’d always admired a pretty, well-boned face, or the lush tease of smooth, youthful skin, or the tempting curve of firm buttocks – but he wasn’t so shallow that the physical was all he required. Bull – monstrously scarred, horned, and so very not human – had been proof enough of that. What had started as a simple attraction to forbidden fruit had become so much more.

Such as it was with the Commander. He’d been handsome, yes, but there was something _more._ Despite his troubled past, within Cullen there was a shining light of goodness.

He knew he should extricate himself from Cullen’s limbs, to get up and start his day. Yet he lingered, breathing in Cullen’s scent. The burnt ozone smell had faded somewhat, and there was something pleasant about waking up beside a lover. Since Bull, Dorian had taken other men to his bed, but hadn’t actually allowed anyone to spend the night.

Dorian sighed. Bull – that big old softhearted cream puff of a man under a veneer of bloodthirsty perversion. Funny how bitter the betrayal still tasted in Dorian’s mouth.

 _That’s what you get, Dorian Pavus, for allowing yourself to have feelings,_ he told himself. _You get your heart broken. Don’t do it again._

The alarm bells were back. The man in his bed was not the same man he’d been drawn to years ago, of course. At best, this Cullen was nearly an empty shell of the man he used to be. And yet, last night had been more than just a release. There had been an intimacy to their lovemaking. It had been passionate, yes, but passion had become a tenderness so sweet that it had made Dorian’s heart ache. And – once they’d managed to get the serious business of fucking out of the way – being with Cullen had been _fun._ Since he and Harding had found him in Val Chevin, it was the first time that Dorian had heard the ex-Commander laugh.

No, having feelings of any sort for Cullen just wouldn’t do. That road would only lead to more hurt. Cullen was dying. Unless the healer he’d consulted could actually pull a miracle out of her ass, there was only one way this relationship was going to end.

Badly.

The simplest thing would be to end this now. They’d had their fun. It would be foolish of him to continue a physical relationship with Cullen. A foolish risk to taste again of that sweetness that made his heart ache.

After Bull had died, Dorian had built a fortress around himself. He would not – _could not!_ – allow anyone to scale his walls and ravage the black, bitter scraps which were the remains of his tattered heart.

\---------------

“Lord Pavus...? There’s someone here to see you.”

Dorian glanced up from his desk at his secretary who had just poked his head through the door. He’d told everyone that he hadn’t wanted to be disturbed. Biting back his annoyance, he asked, “Who is it, Lucius?”

The elf’s lips thinned briefly. “She wouldn’t give her name, but she did say that she was here on Inquisition business.”

That gave Dorian pause. He hadn’t had word from anyone in the Inquisition in a very long time, not even Harding. Hopeful, he asked, “Is our visitor dwarven?”

Lucius shook his head.

Dorian was lightly dressed in flowing silks. As he walked, he adjusted the collar of the over garment before reaching up to smooth back his hair. A quick glance at the mirror he passed assured him that his appearance was flawless, his composure perfect.

The woman awaited him in the foyer, her figure mostly hidden by well-heeled and dusty leather boots, and a nondescript hooded cloak. “May I help you...?”

The woman turned, drawing back the hood to reveal her face.

Short dark hair, the familiar brutal scar across her cheek, and – as Dorian felt his perfect composure slip – the familiar wry amusement in the gray-as-stone eyes. Below her cloak, she wore enough metal that she could have equipped an entire kitchen. “You look surprised to see me, Dorian.”

Dorian’s head was a whirlwind of thoughts. Still, he managed to put on a polite smile. “‘Surprised’ may be a bit of an understatement, Cassandra,” he drawled. “Perhaps I missed the memo informing me that you and I were now friends?”

The slightest flicker of a smile ticked the corners of Cassandra’s lips. Then she gave a quick nod of her head at Lucius, who had trailed behind Dorian from the office. “As I told your servant, this is business,” she said. “Do you really think I would come all the way to _Tevinter_ for my own amusement?”

The way she’d said the name of his homeland, Dorian could almost see the icicles hanging in the air. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said dryly. “You are Nevarran. Your people find the _dead_ amusing.”

“Ironic, coming from a man who is an admitted necromancer.”

Dorian chuckled in appreciation. “Fair,” he admitted. “Might I suggest we continue this discussion in the sitting room? It’s far more comfortable.” He glanced at the elf. “Lucius, have the kitchen send us some tea. And let them know we’ll be having a guest for dinner, and that they should prepare a room in the guest wing.”

\---------------

As one of the slaves poured the tea, Dorian considered the woman sitting across from him.

Time had not been unkind to the Seeker. With her sharp, angular features and bedroom eyes, Dorian had always thought that she was an attractive woman – aesthetically speaking, of course. Even so, he’d rather enjoyed teasing her on occasion for acting more like a man. She’d removed her cloak and her gauntlets. The armor she wore bore no crest or other distinguishing remarks, but Dorian knew that she’d been dividing her time between the Inquisition, serving Divine Victoria, and rebuilding the Seekers in the Hunterhorn mountains north of Orlais. In truth, Dorian considered her a formidable woman, and even secretly admired her. Unfortunately, from the first moment they’d met, Cassandra hadn’t trusted him.

 _Nor should she have,_ he mused. Dorian was no declawed kitten – he was _dangerous._ He wasn’t adverse to murdering rivals in cold blood, particularly those who had ties to the Venatori. And – although he’d meant to keep his skills as a necromancer on the down low – it hadn’t taken long for his secret to spread throughout Skyhold. Of course that was his own fault for being careless. His magic prowess was extraordinary, and it was just in his nature to show it off.

Cassandra had warmed up to him towards the end, just a little, once she’d realized that they were actually on the same side. Dorian was there to help defeat Corypheus, nothing more. He’d come without some terrible, secret _Tevinter_ agenda.

Once the slave had withdrawn from the room, sliding the doors shut behind her, Dorian turned his scrutinizing gaze upon the Seeker. “So, then,” he said somewhat airily. “You’ve really come all this way on Inquisition business?”

Cassandra glanced at the teacup on the table before her, but didn’t pick it up. Instead, she fixed Dorian in her gaze. “Not... _just_ on the behalf of the Inquisition,” she said slowly. “That matter could have been dealt with in writing.” She paused, watching Dorian as he sipped from his own cup, waiting attentively for her to continue. “Lace told me about Cullen.”

Dorian lowered his cup. “You always did have a soft-spot for the Commander.”

“Cullen was a man of integrity and responsibility,” Cassandra said. “A good man. Without his efforts to restore Kirkwall to order after what happened... casualties would have been much higher.”

Dorian couldn’t argue with that. “If you’ve spoken with Harding, then... well, you must _know.”_

Cassandra became grim. “That the lyrium has destroyed his mind?” she said. “Yes, she told me everything.”

“Yet you still wish to see him,” Dorian guessed.

The Seeker shrugged. “I have seen with my own eyes what addiction can do to a Templar. I have no illusions about Cullen.” Pausing, she watched as Dorian ran a finger lightly around the rim of his teacup. “I respect what you are doing for the Commander. If there is some way I can... that I can help ease your burden, I am at your disposal.”

The finger stopped moving. Briefly Dorian wondered what sort of resources Cassandra could offer. _If the Seekers had a secret cure, she would have said so,_ he realized. There was no cure. The most Dorian could hope for was to make Cullen’s remaining time as pleasant as possible.

“If you’d like to see him,” Dorian said, “there is a little time before dinner. Of course, you haven’t finished your tea.”

Cassandra considered the untouched cup for a moment. Then she reached for it. In one swoop, she drained the cup dry and set the cup back down, clattering on the delicate saucer.

Dorian set his own cup down. Rising, he gestured for her to do the same. “By the way,” he said, tone light as he slid the doors open. “Dinner in Tevinter is a formal affair, so you will need to wear a dress.”

Cassandra’s eyes lit up with surprise, but then she caught a glimpse of Dorian’s teasing smirk. “I’ll tell you what, Dorian,” she said. “The day I wear a dress will be when you wear one first.”

Dorian laughed softly. “You know, Cassandra, it would almost be worth it.”

\---------------

Elven hands gracefully placed tureens and platters upon the pristine tablecloth. Other hands poured wine into ornate silver-plated goblets. Dorian made a small, easy gesture with his hand and then the slaves withdrew.

For a while there was only the sound of silverware clinking on plates. Cullen’s eyes swept over the others seated at the table. Usually when he dined with Dorian, they were always alone. But if this were a dinner party, it wasn’t very festive.

To his left, Dorian’s secretary stared at his plate, picking at his food.

To his right sat the woman– whose name Cullen had already forgotten, even though when she and Dorian had found him in the game room less than half hour ago, there had been something familiar about her. Although she’d hidden it well, Cullen had sensed that she’d been disappointed that he couldn’t remember her. She’d asked him many questions, but Cullen hadn’t been able to give her any answers.

Across from him, Dorian seemed more intent on draining his goblet dry than consuming the food on his plate. Outside the house, night had fallen, but the dining room was ablaze with candles. The candlelight gilded Dorian’s skin, creating sharp angles of his face, making him a portrait of black and gold.

The woman reached for a roll from the breadbasket, sword-roughened fingers elegantly tearing it into two. “I’m surprised that you keep slaves, Dorian,” she said. “I was under the impression that being down south had changed your opinions.”

“They came with the house,” Dorian said. “As part of my father’s legacy. However, I don’t actually own any of them – legally, they belong to my mother.”

“And yet you use them,” she said, not bothering to hide her disapproval.

Dorian shrugged. “I suppose you’d prefer that I just give them their freedom. However, even if my mother would agree to releasing a dozen slaves – which, incidentally, is never going to happen – they wouldn’t be any better off.”

“They would be _free,”_ Cassandra said, with emphasis.

Dorian snorted softly. “So says the woman who would have happily dragged me kicking and screaming into a Circle against my will if I hadn’t been actually aiding your precious Inquisition.”

“You should be flattered,” Cassandra said dryly. “We usually leave hunting apostates in the hands of the Templars. Seekers only get involved when the mage in question is particularly cunning.”

Dorian tilted his goblet in her direction. “Flattery will get you nowhere,” he said softly. “And – not that I lose sleep at night worrying myself over your opinion of me – but eradicating slavery in Tevinter _is_ one of the goals of the Lucerni.”

One of Cassandra’s eyebrows twitched up. “So it’s true, then.”

“Strange how you don’t seem surprised. As if you already knew _exactly_ what I’ve been doing since I left the Inquisition.” Dorian picked up the wine bottle, refilling his goblet before holding it towards hers. “More wine?”

Cassandra waved the bottle away. “No need to play coy, Dorian,” she said. “Surely you are aware that you are a person of interest to the Inquisition.”

Dorian slowly set the bottle down on the table, then picked up his cup again, holding it aloft. Of course the Inquisition had spies in Tevinter. Of course they were keeping an eye on _him_. Considering how sour his relationship with Trevelyan had become by the end, he really wasn’t surprised.

“Speaking of the Inquisition... I suppose you ought to tell me what brings you here.”

Cassandra’s eyes flicked suspiciously to the elf.

“Don’t worry about Lucius,” Dorian said. “As my secretary, he is entirely aware of all my affairs.”

Cassandra considered the elf for a moment. Lucius’ dark eyes remained level with hers. Leaning back in her chair, she returned her attention to the magister. “Very well. We know you’ve been gathering agents. Agents who have been seeking to uncover Solas.”

“Solas? Ah, yes, Fen’harel. The trickster,” Dorian said. “You know, I hadn’t seen that coming. You’d think that a god would have at least _some_ sense of what’s fashionable.”

Cassandra snorted. “Your glib tongue does you no credit.”

Dorian nearly quipped that he knew several men – including both of those seated at the dinner table – who could speak on behalf of Dorian’s skill with his tongue. But such a remark would be wasted on the too-serious Seeker. “Perhaps I have been leading my own investigation,” he admitted. “What of it?”

Cassandra gave him a sharp look. “You know perfectly well what I came to propose,” she said. “An alliance. With the Inquisition.”

All eyes fell on Dorian.

Dorian leisurely lifted his goblet. He took a thoughtful sip before lowering it slowly back down to the table. _This._ It was the moment he’d been waiting for. “Very well, Cassandra,” he said. “I will help you. But on one condition.”

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed. “Oh?”

“Yes. I will hand over my list of agents. But only to the Inquisitor. And only here, at the Circle of Magi, in Minrathous.”

Casandra’s eyes became calculating as she considered Dorian’s condition. Then her lips tightened. “What you are asking –”

“Is non-negotiable,” Dorian interrupted.

The Seeker looked at Dorian for a long moment. Dorian returned her judgmental gaze, cold as river stones in winter, hard as Cullen’s steel. Still, Dorian was surprised when Cassandra declined to argue with him – the response he’d expected. Though – when her cool gray eyes flicked to the elf and the ex-Commander – Dorian also suspected that they would be speaking of this again in private.

“I will send word to the Inquisitor in the morning,” she said. Folding her napkin, she set it on the table beside her plate.

Dorian repeated her gesture. Pushing his chair back, he stood up from the table. “You must be tired from the journey,” he said, playing the gracious host once more. “If you wish, I could have Lucius show you to your room.”

Cullen stared at Dorian. Candlelight now lapped up his long throat, created dark hollows in the sharp plains of his face, and glinted in his dusky eyes. Silken sleeves rustled as he gestured towards the door, sliding back to reveal the graceful flick of his wrist.

Maker’s breath, he was beautiful.

Then the ex-Templar hastily stood as the others also rose from the table, following Dorian out of the dining room.

As Cassandra and Lucius walked ahead, Cullen caught up with Dorian in the corridor. As his hand clasped Dorian’s arm, the mage turned to regard him curiously. “Cullen...?”

“Dorian,” Cullen said. “Take me with you.”

Dorian inhaled sharply. He’d made his decision to not pursue any sort of physical relationship with Cullen only two days ago. Since then, he’d been too busy to give the matter much thought, except for a momentary regret as he lay alone, half-drunk, in his bed last night. It would be foolish. Except that he didn’t stop Cullen when the blond lifted a hand to the side of his neck, nor when Cullen leaned in, pressing a kiss against Dorian’s unwitting lips.

Dorian felt the same rush of warmth. Tasted the stars on Cullen’s tongue. Heard that now-familiar melody as it thrummed inside his heart. Felt himself getting dangerously lost in that honeyed sea of sensation.

He hadn’t meant to let this happen. Especially not here, where they could be seen. Dorian drew back, lowering Cullen’s hand with his own as he glanced to his left. There – a few yards up ahead – Lucius and Cassandra had both stopped, and were looking at him and Cullen with undisguised astonishment.

Dorian wasn’t particularly concerned about his secretary, but he already knew that he and Cassandra would be having a little talk about this stupid little awkward display later.

Cullen’s voice was a soft murmur near his ear. “Dorian...?”

Dorian looked at him. The rational part of his mind said no. But his own tongue betrayed him. He spoke quickly, in a hushed tone, for Cullen’s ears only.

“Come to my room in twenty minutes,” he said.

\---------------

_He has a dream._

_A beautiful, impossible dream._

_In the candlelit room, he waits. Twists the golden rings off his fingers, one by one, letting them clink softly in an antique bowl made of brass. Free of their weight, his hands slide over the blanket, smoothing out invisible wrinkles, as he sits upon the edge of the bed. Waiting for his lover to come. The one that he is lit for._

_In this dream, Cullen is not dying. He is still whole, unravaged by the cruel hands of time and lyrium addiction. He is still a pillar of strength and goodness. The glorious Lion of Ferelden._

_His lover comes. Without a word, he draws Dorian into his arms. There are kisses, long, drawn-out and sweet as languid fingers roam with purpose, loosening knots, slipping under hems, uncovering and revealing. Dorian’s silks pool at their feet. Cullen’s clever hands release Dorian’s hair from its jeweled clasp, then rake tenderly through the heavy strands, silky smooth and dark as chocolate._

_Dorian steps back, graceful as a dancer. Draws Cullen down to the bed. Touches his golden skin, velvety like flowers._

_Like a hand in a perfectly tailored glove, Cullen fits inside him. Dorian is the shore rocking off him. Swept away like sand as Cullen washes over him, breathless with longing as Cullen breaks away again._

_The golden body buffets lovingly over him. Dorian bruises against him. His body and his heart are an open harbor, longing to be filled by his lover, to enclose and protect him._

_Together, they unlearn._


	7. i am the bush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW.

Cassandra Pentaghast, had been a guest at Dorian’s house in Minrathous for three weeks when Lucius came to the conclusion that he was merely wallpaper.

Lucius did not dislike the Seeker. She had a brusque, straight-forward manner of speaking, and she did not hesitate to express her disapproval of Dorian’s actions. Unlike the usual people with whom Dorian mingled – Tevinter’s elite. Among the upper class, agendas were hidden, and motives masked under the veneer of civility. At least until someone resorted to expressing their disapproval with blood magic or murder.

Lucius had been present on the morning following her arrival. Over breakfast, Cassandra had attempted to change Dorian’s mind about his condition for his alliance with the Inquisition. The Inquisitor was a busy man. The road to Minrathous from Val Royeaux was long and dangerous. Dorian was being childish by holding a grudge. And what, exactly, did he hope to accomplish by dragging Trevelyan halfway across Thedas, other than _inconveniencing_ the man?

Dorian listened with patient indulgence to Cassandra’s arguments. He didn’t bother to explain his reasons, nor refute them. However, he would not be swayed. If the Inquisitor wanted Dorian’s help – _for a change,_ he added dryly – then the man was going to have to come to Tevinter of his own volition and ask for Dorian’s help with his own mouth. End of argument. _More coffee, Cassandra?_

Cassandra had waved the coffee away. Pursed her lips as she watched Dorian push his fork around on his plate until he glimpsed her dark expression, and was compelled to ask. _Something else on your mind, my dear Lady Seeker?_

Cassandra grunted. _In fact, there is. About you and the Commander._

Lucius braced himself. He knew that he wasn’t the only man Dorian had slept with since Bull’s death. But Dorian’s other affairs had always been both brief and discreet, and he’d never brought another man home with him, which meant that for Lucius Dorian’s other lovers had existed mostly in the abstract. Actually seeing Dorian embracing the blond man drove home the point that those men were more than an abstraction. That they had real flesh-and-blood bodies, and that Dorian had taken pleasure in using or being used by them.

On the one hand, Lucius wished that he hadn’t actually seen them, so that he could go on pretending that Dorian’s other lovers didn’t exist.

On the other, he had a sick desire to know all the details of Dorian’s tryst – in particular, how it was merely physical, and how little it had meant or mattered.

As expected, Dorian’s demeanor remained aloof. _Are you asking me for details, Cassandra? Because in Tevinter, at least, it’s considered rude to fuck and tell._

Cassandra’s lips had tightened in distaste at the magister’s vulgarity. _Then your relationship with Cullen is... of a physical nature,_ she assessed. _Given the damage that’s been done – do you really think that’s wise?_

Dorian’s hand, which had been lavishing butter of a piece of toast, became still for a brief moment. _You know what coming off lyrium does,_ he finally said. _Just think of me like a healer. I’m merely tending to his needs._

Cassandra had dropped the subject at that point, and had not brought it up again, at least in Lucius’ presence. She had, however, agreed to remain as Dorian’s guest until word from the Inquisitor arrived. Eventually – driven by boredom, perhaps – she began to join the ex-Commander in the small open space behind the house, where she and Cullen trampled the grass as they practiced swordplay.

As for Dorian, his usual activities kept him occupied, so Lucius still served him in his capacity as secretary every day. However, Dorian no longer invited Lucius to join him in his bedroom at night. And when Lucius finally decided to take matters into his own hands by offering himself up like a tantalizing elven cream cake on a golden platter, Dorian’s response had been positively phlegmatic. Dismissive.

Lucius wasn’t _spying_ on his employer. However, the slaves were a reliable source of information on all of Dorian’s nocturnal activities. And more often than not, those activities included having the blond human in his bed.

Worse – as time passed, Lucius noticed how Dorian’s eyes began to light up any time Cullen entered the room. In the looks they gave each other, there was real feeling.

When the knowledge struck, it hit the _laetan_ hard like a Titan’s hammer.

_I’ve been replaced._

Lucius’ heart was a plum in a giant’s callous fist, easily crushed. Growing up in Tevinter, he knew that he could never speak of his feelings about Dorian to anyone. Taking pleasure in each other – that was acceptable, and he knew that he could never hope for more. Still, that didn’t mean that he hadn’t fallen hard and fast into love with Dorian Pavus from the very moment he walked in through the magister’s door.

He’d never experienced a hurt like this. It mixed with anger, a constant sensation not unlike serpents writhing in his belly whenever he was in his employer’s presence. And when Dorian had rejected his offer of sex, it had felt like a thousand nettles being jabbed viciously into his chest. The same sensation he suffered every time Dorian’s eyes lit up for the other man.

There were many common options for a jilted lover. Killing the rival was quite popular in Tevinter. Confronting the loved one was another. But Lucius chose neither of these options. The last thing he wanted to do was make Dorian feel bad by expressing his hurt. Instead he took all his anguish and disappointment and shoved it as far down inside him as he could manage.

Still, he moped. He snapped at everyone. He made absentminded mistakes. But Dorian scarcely noticed Lucius’ sudden change of mood. In fact, as far as Lucius could tell, Dorian – so caught up in his affair with the ex-Templar – was completely oblivious to his secretary’s suffering.

He was just a fixture in Dorian’s background. Unnoticed. He was wallpaper.

For some time, he floated, uncertain. He didn’t know what to do – he only knew that he couldn’t go on like this. Oh, he wasn’t going to anything as dramatic as toss himself into the sea surrounding Minrathous to drown. Still, it was as if Dorian had cast a spell over him, freezing him in place with his muddled thoughts and his heart a shipwreck upon the jagged rocks.

One afternoon, it happened. The final push that freed him from his indecision, and sent him spiraling off the edge.

Returning from an errand, Lucius made his way directly to Dorian’s office. The door was shut. He had one hand on the doorknob, the other poised to knock, when he heard the telltale sounds coming from inside.

He listened for a moment. Soft, the breathless murmur of the blond.

_Are you sure...?_

Lucius strained to hear Dorian’s response, which came a heart beat later.

_Kaffas, Cullen... I want you. Inside of me. Now._

Faint was the creak of the divan as bodies shifted upon it.

Lucius slowly lowered his hand. Released the latch. Paused for a moment as his broken heart continued to inexplicably shatter into a thousand pieces. Strange – he hadn’t thought his pain could have possibly felt any worse.

He made his way to his room. There he methodically and swiftly packed his belongings into a bag. He owned little. Once packed, he slung the bag over his shoulder, and picked up his staff. As he stood before his small writing desk, he briefly considered leaving a note. Deciding against it, he then removed the amulet that Dorian had gifted him – a polished sphere of obsidian encircled by silver snakes – and set it down upon the desk.

He slipped unnoticed through the house and out the door. On the crowded street he stopped, casting one final glance at the Pavus house. Tugging up the hood of his cloak, he turned and began to walk until he was swallowed up in the crowd, never looking back.

\---------------

_It’s only sex. A release, nothing more. Just pleasure between two men._

Dorian told himself that every time Cullen came to his room, ready to play. Or to his office, which happened occasionally, and again this afternoon. He told himself that every time Cullen’s hand slipped around to cup the back of his neck as if it belonged there and pull Dorian in for a kiss. Every time Cullen’s mouth enveloped him in its irresistible wet heat. Usually, it was at this point that Dorian stopped thinking about anything beyond what he wanted Cullen to do to him.

_It’s only sex. A release, nothing more. Just pleasure between two men._

Dorian had already stopped thinking. This, despite the fact that they were still dressed, although Dorian’s pants had been loosened and pushed partway down his hips. Also despite the fact that he was holding one of his legs up, precariously balanced against Cullen’s thigh, in a somewhat awkward position in order to give Cullen better access.

On the desk, the upturned bottle of oil continued to slowly drip and puddle across the surface.

Dorian sucked on Cullen’s fingers, trying not to bite down. There were three of them, shoved halfway into his mouth. Except not biting was difficult, because two of the fingers of Cullen’s other hand were planted firmly up his arse.

He nearly bit down again as Cullen’s oiled fingers slid partway out and then back up again. Dorian relished the sensation. He was already open, wanting more, wanting to be filled by him.

Cullen’s eyes were affixed to his face. Watching. Drinking in Dorian’s pleasure. Adjusting his ministrations based on the mage’s expressions. Eyes that were amber fire, or liquid gold. He slipped his hand from Dorian’s mouth, letting it fall to the mage’s cock and rubbing it with his saliva-coated fingers.

Dorian breathed a soft moan, his own fingers tightening into Cullen’s shoulders. Everything that Cullen was doing to him felt almost unbearably wonderful. He’d quickly learned – and remembered – what Dorian liked.

_More, yes._ More than _wanting_ it, he _needed_ it. “Cullen...” Dorian pleaded. “Fuck me... on the couch...”

Cullen’s eyes lit up, ablaze with lust and need and happiness. Dorian gasped as Cullen withdrew his fingers. Eyes closing as Cullen pressed a quick, warm kiss against his lips. Then both of Cullen’s hands were on Dorian’s hips, covering Dorian’s mouth with heated kisses as they danced back towards the divan.

They managed not to stumble. Stopped before the divan where Cullen kissed him deeply again, one hand sliding up into Dorian’s hair as he cradled the back of Dorian’s head. Humming with pleasure, Dorian slid his hands up Cullen’s shirt, reveling in the feel of the ex-Commander’s warm skin as he dug his fingers into Cullen’s waist.

Cullen drew back, his eyes – lucid, golden – delving into Dorian’s so deeply that the mage felt like his soul was on display.

_It’s only sex._

Dorian let Cullen turn him so that he was now facing the divan. He then inhaled sharply as Cullen stepped forward so that Dorian could feel his hard length pressed up against the seam of his ass though the fabric of their pants. As Cullen’s hands fell gently to his waist, Dorian felt the man’s hot breath against his overly sensitive ears.

“Are you sure...?”

Dorian turned his head, letting his lips brush against Cullen’s jaw. “ _Kaffas,_ Cullen... I want you. Inside of me. Now.”

“Dorian,” Cullen softly murmured. With wonder in his voice. Maker, how Dorian loved it when Cullen spoke his name. He loved it even more as Cullen’s fingers dipped down underneath his clothes, pushing down both pants and small clothes at the same time.

Then Cullen’s hands were gently coaxing his body gently down so that Dorian was positioned on his knees on the divan. Dorian braced himself by gripping onto the back of the divan as Cullen’s hand settled on his hip. His gripped the couch harder as Cullen pressed his cock up against his hole and began to press in.

Dorian submitted. To Cullen, to the cock penetrating him, to the sheer pleasure of being possessed. His own cock was still hard, but he ignored it for the moment, instead focused on the sensation of Cullen’s member slowly sliding in and out of him until he was buried deep within Dorian’s body.

Cullen’s fingertips ghosted down his spine as he held himself still for a moment. “Maker’s breath, Dorian... you’re beautiful.”

This. It was torturous. He was ready and wanted more. “Cullen... _move.”_

Cullen filled him. Sometimes a fuck was merely that – satisfying a need for sex. As Cullen surged forward, Dorian thrust back, again and again, that need was fulfilled. If asked, Dorian would have denied that it was anything more. That there was an intimacy to these acts, that Cullen was somehow filling some other need inside him that wasn’t merely physical.

_A release, nothing more._

The ex-Commander knew what pace Dorian liked. How fast to thrust, how deep. When to draw it out to a slow tease, and when to rut like beasts. At first, it was always long, languorous strokes, Cullen drawing almost all the way out before sliding back in again. Hands wandering all over the mage’s hot, often sweaty skin in the Tevinter heat, as if he could never get enough. Gliding in and out of Dorian’s body until he couldn’t speak anymore, reduced to a series of throaty groans. Then, as he crested the pleasure of his peak, Dorian would seize his own shaft in hand, stroking in time to Cullen’s increasingly hard and rapid thrusts.

His cry a choked sound, he spattered his seed, sticky strings of pearls glimmering on the red velvet cushions of the couch. As he rode the last waves of his peak, Cullen bucked into him with shuddering breaths.

_Just pleasure between two men._

After, they lay on the couch in each others’ arms. Dorian nestled closer, settling his head in the crook of Cullen’s neck, as the blond’s arms tightened protectively around him. Dorian considered telling him to get dressed and leave. After all, they’d had their fun. But... he _wanted_ this. To lie enveloped in his lover’s arms. To – for just a moment – pretend that the gods were fair and the world was not a terrible place.

For a while they lay close together on the narrow couch, limbs entangled, bodies fitting together like two pieces of one of the ex-Commander’s jigsaw puzzles, as Cullen’s hand trailed lazily up and down Dorian’s arm.

Eventually Cullen broke the silence. His voice soft, distant. “I was nineteen years old when they died.”

Curious, Dorian leaned up on one elbow, looking down into Cullen’s eyes, which were still lucid as clean glass, sharp as steel. “When who died?”

“My parents,” Cullen said, then began to speak haltingly as he searched his memory, his eyes wandering. “I was... somewhere. A stony place... in the middle of a lake. A tower.” He paused, struggling to recall. “There was a letter... from a sibling. To tell me that our parents had died.” Cullen paused again, then looked at Dorian. “They’d been heading towards South Reach. To escape the Blight, but... they didn’t make it.”

Dorian stared at him. The way he’d spoken, it reminded Dorian of the Cullen he’d known back at Skyhold. He didn’t know what to do with this unexpected glimpse of the old Commander. It made him feel as if a spirit’s invisible hand was slowly, yet methodically, constricting around his heart.

Dorian drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

Cullen met his gaze. Then a sad smile twitched across his lips. “It... it was a long time ago, wasn’t it?”

_The Fifth Blight._ As for Dorian, he’d been safe in Minrathous at the time, untouched by anything more than rumors about the rise of the Old God down south. “Yes. About fifteen years ago.”

Cullen hummed thoughtfully. “Strange. It seems like it happened yesterday,” he said. Then, smiling, he reached up, letting his fingers trace down the side of Dorian’s face. “At least I’m here now,” he said. “And I will always stay by your side.”

The invisible hand in Dorian’s chest suddenly convulsed and crushed, squeezing out every last drop of his blood. He could have wept. Instead, he placed his free hand on top of Cullen’s, and forced a perfectly cheerful smile.

“Of course you will,” he lied.

\---------------

The elven slave seemed to shrink in on himself. Hands folded, head bowed, he stared at the floor as his master shouted at him.

“For fuck’s sake,” Dorian said, slamming both hands down upon his desk. “No one – absolutely no one – has any idea when Lucius left? Or where he was going?”

The elf’s voice was thinner than a tin whistle. “No, Master.”

“Dorian.” This from Cassandra, who sat upon the divan, holding a book while her tea once again grew cold. Her gaze, like her tone, was as harsh and unforgiving as winter in the Frostbacks. “Taking your frustrations out on that poor boy isn’t going to change anything.”

Lips pinched tight, Dorian’s gaze – angry, cold – lingered on the Seeker. Then his attention flickered over to Cullen, seated in one of the chairs across from Cassandra. By his expression, he was not too thrilled with Dorian’s behavior either.

Dorian sighed internally. He _was_ frustrated. That Lucius could just walk out on him like that... it was the last thing he’d been expecting. He felt... _betrayed_.

He tugged on his magisterial robes, straightening them. He needed to be at the Circle soon, for the Magisterium was convening. Once dressed, he’d sent for his secretary so they could go over the day’s agenda, but Lucius had disappeared at some point between yesterday morning – when Dorian had last seen him – and now.

“Forgive me, Calamus,” Dorian said to his slave. “Take the rest of the day off. Do as you please.”

“Thank you, Master,” the slave said, giving a subservient bow before he slipped out of the office.

Ignoring the others’ stares, Dorian flopped down into the chair behind his desk. Picking up the snake amulet, he rubbed his thumb across the polished stone. It had been a rather extravagant gift for a man to give his secretary – though not an inappropriate one to give a lover. Clearly Lucius had left it behind as some sort of statement.

Glancing up, he noted that Cassandra was still regarding him with open disapproval. As if he were some sort of _monster,_ just because he lost his temper and shouted at one of his slaves. “Do you have something you wish to say, Cassandra?”

Cassandra looked at silently for a little while longer. Then she lowered her book, fingers absentmindedly skirting along the frayed edges of its cover. “The disappearance of your secretary must be rather distressing for you.”

Dorian made a little sound of exasperation. “He was very skilled as a secretary and as a mage,” he admitted. He certainly wasn’t going to elaborate on Lucius’ _other_ skills. Such as that delightful little trick he’d done with his mouth. “He won’t be easily replaced.”

Cassandra snorted. “Of course. A young man in your employ vanishes suddenly without a trace, and you’re more concerned about the inconvenience it causes you, rather than _his_ well-being.” She raised a challenging eyebrow. “Dorian, do you even care about anyone other than yourself?”

They were heading towards an argument. He could have reminded her, of course, of his and Mae’s plans to abolish slavery in Tevinter. Even though the last person who had made that attempt ended up quite thoroughly dead. Except he didn’t feel compelled to defend himself to the Seeker.

Still – her question rankled him. He’d cared about other people before. Cared for them deeply. His father, Rilienus, Felix, Magister Alexius, and Bull.

And now, all of them – everyone he had ever loved – were _dead._

He didn’t look at Cullen.

“Lucius is a grown man, and perfectly capable of defending himself,” Dorian said. Then he smiled thinly. “He might even have mastered certain Nevarran techniques. Oh, and thanks for letting me know about those, by the way.”

Cassandra snorted again. “Of course you would teach him necromancy.”

Dorian opened the drawer of his desk, shoving the amulet into it. “You say that like you disapprove.”

Grim, Cassandra stared down at the book in her lap. “Sometimes...” she said darkly, “sometimes it’s better if the dead _stay_ dead.”

Dorian considered that. If he’d been able to then, would he have brought Bull back? No, the man had betrayed the Inquisition. Betrayed _him._ For years, the Qunari had played pretend. But Felix... Felix was the one man he would have paid nearly any price to save, if only he could have.

He exhaled slowly, letting some his agitation dissipate along with his breath. “If it makes you feel any better, I am planning on sending men to find Lucius. If he doesn’t wish to remain here, then... well, perhaps Mae could arrange for another magister to take him.”

Cassandra made a thoughtful hum. “Well. I hope you find him.”

Dorian lifted one elegant eyebrow. “Why, Cassandra. It almost sounds as if you _like_ him.”

“And why wouldn’t I, Dorian?”

“Because, frankly, you don’t like anyone.”

Cassandra’s look was sharp. “That’s not true, and you know it.”

There was a light rap on the open door and one of the slaves stepped in to deliver a letter to the Seeker. Cullen and Dorian both watched raptly as she opened the letter, read through it once, then folded it up again.

Dorian studied her closely. “You know, Cassandra, I can’t tell if that was good news or bad.”

“Well,” Cassandra said, her tone level. “You should be happy to know that you’re getting your wish. The Inquisitor is coming. And will meet you in the Circle of Minrathous at midday on the fifteenth.”

The fifteenth? That meant that the Inquisitor had wasted no time in-between sending the letter and starting his journey. “That’s next week,” Dorian said. He tapped his fingers on the desk. “Did your letter say anything else?”

Cassandra paused, deep in thought. “Only that the Inquisitor hopes that you are indeed _willing_ to cooperate with us.”

Dorian scoffed. “Does he really think I’d ask him to travel all the way to Minrathous for my own amusement?”

She sighed. “It’s not as though you haven’t made your feelings about the Inquisitor clear to anyone in Val Royeaux with a pair of ears.”

His anger was a match. Just a small flame. He understood to what she was referring: he’d drunk too much at a party in the Winter Palace one night, with the consequence of his running his mouth off a bit more than he should have.

_“Vishante kaffas,_ Cassandra,” Dorian spat. “How many lives must that fucking bastard destroy before you see what he truly is?”

Cullen blinked. In his chest, his heart lurched strangely, his head light as puffs of raw cotton. _That fucking bastard_ , Dorian had said. The man who had hurt him.

The man they called _The Inquisitor._

Cassandra’s eyes became hard as diamonds. “Bull betrayed the Inquisition because he’d gone back to the Qun. You can’t blame the Inquisitor for that.”

_Because he’d sacrificed the Chargers,_ Dorian nearly said. He knew that Cassandra hadn’t agreed with that decision, but that didn’t mean this argument was going to work. However, he knew what would. “No, but Cullen was free of lyrium until _someone_ put it in his hand and ordered him to drink it.”

Both pair of gray eyes – one a twilight sky over the sea, the other a lichen-spackled stone – fell upon Cullen. For a moment, their consideration was almost detached, but their cold scrutiny quickly became concern.

_“Kaffas,”_ Dorian murmured, already shoving his chair back as he rose behind the desk. “Cullen. You’re pale. Are you feeling all right?”

Strange how quickly his cotton puff head had started to spin. Whirling about, and edged with darkness that was rapidly closing in. At the same time, his heart skittered, thumping out a dangerous irregular rhythm against the cage of his ribs as if trying to free itself.

The teacup clattered against the saucer as he set it down crooked, liquid sloshing over its rim.

“I –” Cullen began.

Before Dorian or Cassandra could reach him, he pitched forward out of his chair and slammed into the table face first, then a cold, clinical darkness overtook him.

 


	8. i am burning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I am a bastard, enjoy the cliffhanger. *insert evil cackle here*

Voices filtered in through the darkness.

He was lying on his bed, though he couldn’t remember how he had gotten here. He was aware of a throbbing pain on the right side of his head. A few small lamps had been lit, but the curtains were drawn, so the room was dim. The bed was soft beneath his body, and the coverlet was a feathery cloud that skimmed up over his chest. Moving his limbs cost him great effort. He opted to remain still, listening.

“– so, do you know what happened?”

A woman’s voice, hard, all business. _Cassandra._

“Quite simply? It’s one of effects of prolonged lyrium addiction. As his brain continues to deteriorate, he will begin to lose control of his basic motor functions. At some point, you may want to have someone watching him at all times, as loss of balance and falling are quite common.”

Another woman’s voice, a sweet, summery drawl that he didn’t recognize, though her accent was easily identifiable as Tevene. Cullen cracked open his eyes. Beyond the foot of the bed, Dorian huddled with the women. Cassandra stood stiff-backed, her arms crossed. The other woman wore dark robes stitched with silver thread. Long dark hair was piled in an elaborate coil upon her head. She had an aristocratic profile – a sculpture-perfect brow, a strong nose, full lips, and a long, elegant neck framed by a silvery silk scarf. It took him a moment to recognize her. Healer Petalis.

Dorian’s expression was pure dismay. “Basic motor functions–!” he began, but was unable to continue, choking on the words which had become stuck in his throat.

There was only a flicker in Cassandra’s cool facade. “But Cullen passed out.”

The healer pursed her lips. “I assume he became dizzy and fell. Hitting his head on the table – that’s what knocked him out.”

He’d fallen? That, at least, explained why his head ached.

Dorian’s expression of dismay only deepened. “But Cullen was... well, he was getting _better,”_ Dorian said, his voice low. “He’s so much healthier than when we found him, Lilia. He’s put on weight. Even muscle. He trains with Cassandra nearly every day. He could barely stand on his own two feet when we arrived in Minrathous. Now, he’s much stronger.”

Lilia made a loose gesture that caused the silver bangles about her wrist to jingle softly. “The lyrium primarily effects the brain, so I’m not surprised. But the parts of the brain that effect body co-ordination – those will be the last to go.”

Dorian crossed his arms over his chest, squeezing his body tightly as if to keep himself from falling apart, or hold in some hurt. “Then this means he’s still dying.”

Lilia sighed. “Yes. He is.”

Time ground to a sudden halt for Cullen. The words hovered as though written in the air, right before his eyes, but he was having trouble absorbing them. What they meant. The gravity of the entire situation. What Dorian had said... it was difficult to accept. Slowly, the significance of the magister’s words began to sink in like a floe into the warm Waking Sea.

_I am dying._

Dorian frowned. His voice pitched up as he spoke again. “But it isn’t just his strength that has improved. In the past few weeks, he’s been lucid more often than not. He’s been _remembering_ things he couldn’t remember before. He’s almost like the old Cullen.”

“This is true,” Cassandra added. “Cullen has seemed more like his old self.”

“Surely, Lilia,” Dorian continued, “if his brain is being eaten by the lyrium, wouldn’t he be getting _worse?”_

“Not... necessarily,” the healer said. “You see, sometimes – before the end – these moments of clarity are quite common. No one really understands why but, as parts of the brain die, something triggers old memories that previously seemed lost.”

Silence fell. The atmospheric gloom was oppressive in its weight, like a blanket made out of wet sand.

_I am dying._

Finally, Dorian spoke. Voice a low creak like an overladen wagon wheel about to splinter and break. “We must keep him alive,” Dorian whispered. “I need him to _live.”_

Lilia placed a hand gently on Dorian’s sleeve. “I have researched this matter as you instructed, Magister Pavus. There are ways we could prolong the quantity of his life. However, that would not increase the _quality_ of his remaining days. At best, we’d be magically sustaining a drooling vegetable.”

Aghast, Dorian angrily jerked back his arm. “You dare –!”

At Dorian’s upraised hand, the healer flinched. Dorian was not the sort of man to resort to physical violence, particularly against a woman. Seeing the sudden flash of fear on her face, he quickly lowered his hand.

Jaw set, Lilia straightened. “I am only telling you the truth, Magister,” she said coolly. “If that is all you require, I will be on my way.”

“I’ll escort you out,” Cassandra said when Dorian remained silent.

Sick with guilt, Dorian followed the women with his gaze as they exited the room. He’d almost lost control of himself. He’d almost...

“Dorian?”

Dorian turned. He’d composed his face into something serene. His voice was light as air, masking hidden hurts. “Awake, are you?”

Cullen edged up the pillows, but actually sitting up was still too much effort. “You didn’t tell me,” he said. “You didn’t tell me I was dying.”

Dorian became motionless, except for the slight rise and fall of his chest with his shallow breaths. He didn’t know exactly how much Cullen had heard or even understood, but he’d clearly heard enough.

He crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed next to Cullen. “There didn’t seem to be any point to it,” he said. “Telling you – it wouldn’t have changed anything. It would have only made you needlessly suffer.”

Cullen stared into Dorian’s eyes. Eyes colored smoke, reflecting the orange of the burning oil lamps. Within them, two words flashed like fireflies blinking coded messages: _I’m sorry._

One of Dorian’s hand rested upon the bed. Cullen reached out to cover it with his own, twisting his wrist to twine their fingers together. When he squeezed, Dorian squeezed back.

“How long do I have?” he asked.

Dorian paused. There was no reason to hide the truth anymore. “None of the healers could say for certain – apparently no one with an addiction this advanced actually _quits_ using lyrium, but... a few months, at the most.”

“And there’s no cure.”

“No. There isn’t.”

Cullen’s fingers twitched. “No...” he said haltingly. “Of course not. The healer... she said that, didn’t she? That there’s nothing anyone can do.”

Dorian stared down at the hand most fervently clinging to his. There had to be something he could do for Cullen. Something other than provide food and shelter, sex and comfort.

Lifting his gaze, he put on a brave smile for Cullen’s sake. “You still have some time,” Dorian said. “Whatever you want to do, anything you desire to have, any place you wish to go – I have money _and_ power. Whatever your heart wishes – I can get it for you.” Dorian paused, still smiling. “Just tell me what you want, Commander, and you shall have it.”

Cullen looked at Dorian for a long moment. “I... I don’t know what I want.”

Gentle and reassuring was Dorian’s hand as he entwined their fingers together more firmly.

“Think about it.”

\---------------

The Inquisition came to Minrathous of the fifteenth of Cloudreach.

For the past week, Cullen’s existence had remained the same. He and Cassandra continued to spar in the yard. They usually dined with Dorian at least twice a day. Much of his remaining free time was spent in the game room, working on a puzzle that had arrived all the way from Orzammar. He enjoyed working on the puzzles, though when Cassandra had asked him about them, he hadn’t been able to articulate why. Putting them together soothed him somehow, and kept the waking nightmares at bay. Then, at night, he slept in Dorian’s bed, with the mage in his arms, holding him close. The only thing that had changed was that now both of his friends watched him closely for signs of his body’s inevitable decay.

Cullen had become dizzy only twice more. Dorian’s arm had been enough to steady him both times. But – more and more frequently – without warning, the tips of his fingers would become numb and his hands would start to shake. The worst had been at the dinner table, when the shaking had been so intense that he’d been unable to maintain a grip on his fork. Like a newly hatched chick, he’d had to rely on someone else to feed him – in this case, Dorian.

Cullen understood that he was dying. That he’d consumed too much lyrium, and now it was killing him. He also understood that it would destroy more of his mind and weaken his body before death finally claimed him. That he would, in a mere few months, become an invalid, completely dependent on Dorian to feed him, to groom and dress him, and to clean him when he soiled himself.

 _I can’t allow that to happen,_ Cullen thought. In that death, there was no dignity. And he didn’t want Dorian to remember him like that. Sickly, weak, helpless.

_A drooling vegetable._

At the breakfast table one morning, Dorian wiped the butter from his lips before he folded up his napkin. “We’ll be leaving shortly for the Circle,” he announced. He tilted his head, giving Cullen a questing look. “Are you absolutely certain that you wish to come?”

Cullen thought for a moment. Then he remembered. Dorian and Cassandra were going to see Maxwell Trevelyan. _The Inquisitor._ And Cullen had asked to accompany them.

He nodded.

Dorian smiled lightly. “In that case, I’ve picked out something for you to wear,” he revealed. “You’ll find it laid out on your bed. Go change, and then meet us out front.”

The three of them went their separate ways, each to his or her own room. In his, Cullen found a pair of tall, black leather boots on the floor, and upon the bed there were three items of clothing: a pair of dark twill trousers, a fine tunic made of wine-colored silk, and one sleeveless surcoat in russet-colored fabric trimmed in gold, with an extravagant collar made of fur.

Cullen stared at it as he stroked his fingers through the fur. It was _his_ fur – he remembered it. He’d had it for as long as he could remember. He’d believed that Dorian had burned it along with the rest of his clothes on the day they’d arrived, and then forgotten about it. Except – evidently – Dorian had somehow managed to have it repaired instead.

There was even something... _familiar_ about the garment it was attached to, though he couldn’t quite fathom why. Once he’d changed into the shirt and pants and tugged on the new boots, he pulled on the fur-collared coat. It took him a few moments to figure out how the coat was meant to be worn – wrapped around his waist and tied on one side, the rest draping down past his hips.

Sword strapped to his side, Cullen stood before the mirror. The fur – cleaned and fluffed – made his shoulders appear broader, floating up behind his head almost like a mane.

_They called you the Lion of Ferelden._

He’d had a purpose then. The lofty goal of saving the world. And now...

Heading down the corridors to meet the others, Cullen stopped in the game room. The puzzle from Orzammar sat upon the table, complete except for one single piece. For some reason, once he’d reached this point, he’d left the puzzle incomplete.

The image that pieces formed was that of a woman dressed in Grey Warden armor, sacrificing herself to stop the Archdemon and end the Blight. The missing piece was part of one of the Archdemon’s eyes. From the woman’s hands blue flames swirled and sparked.

Unbidden, the memory surged up suddenly. _Her name was Amell. When she came into the room, her smile was so beautiful it stopped my breath. Long auburn hair and dark brown eyes that sparkled with laughter, magic that danced from her fingertips._

Cullen ran his fingers along the puzzle’s surface, feeling its rough edges where the individual pieces conjoined. He was this puzzle: a series of fragments, the picture incomplete. Soon, he would fall apart again, his mind jumbled, but at this moment of pure lucidity, he was missing only one thing.

His purpose.

Since Dorian had asked him, it was the only thing Cullen truly wanted. To have a reason to live. A cause worth fighting for. Something to defend. To be useful, once more, before the bitter end. For the past week, he’d thought of little else. He was dying, and therefore had nothing left to lose.

Picking up the final piece of the puzzle, Cullen snapped it into place.

He had found his purpose.

Cullen Rutherford was going to kill the Inquisitor.

\---------------

The Circle of Magi was a dark, foreboding behemoth that towered over Minrathous. Its soot-colored spires stabbed the late morning sky as they made their approach. The stone facade bore the likenesses of the Old Gods – twisted monstrosities that leered at the unwary as they passed through the tall arches of the iron gates that twisted like thorny branches, into the courtyard.

Cassandra’s gaze darted about as she lay an uneasy hand on the pommel of her sword. _“This_ is the seat of all of Tevinter’s power?”

Dorian flashed her an amused smile. “If by the seat you mean the Magisterium, then yes, it is. Charming, isn’t it?”

“I’ve seen battle wounds that were more charming,” Cassandra murmured, and then fell silent as they entered the building proper.

The inside of the Circle was a striking contrast. Brightly lit, its vaulted ceilings rose far above their heads. White-washed walls and pale marble floors added to the open airiness of the space. Unlike the city, the interior of the Circle was cool, clean and inviting.

Dorian smirked at Cassandra’s expression of surprise. “You may want to close your mouth, Cassandra, before a bug flies into it.”

Cassandra snorted, but promptly shut her mouth.

Men and women circulated through the space, all of them dressed in robes of varying styles and colors. As they strode in, Dorian nodded briefly to a few of them in greeting, but he didn’t stop to speak to anyone. Instead, he made a bee-line for the familiar armored woman that was standing at the opposite end of the foyer, waiting.

Lace Harding’s face lit up as the trio approached her. She gave Dorian a respectful nod. “Good to see you again, Ambassador.”

A warm smile curled out from under Dorian’s mustache. “Same to you, Captain.”

Her gaze lingered briefly on Dorian before falling to Cassandra. They women greeted each other with warm familiarity, and then her gaze came to rest on Cullen. Dorian could almost feel Harding’s pleasure as her eyes widened and then shone with happy approval.

“General Cullen...” she stammered. “You look... you look amazing.”

Dorian thought that an exaggeration. Until he recalled how Cullen had looked – filthy, bearded, unkempt – the last time Lace had actually seen him. Now, at least – Cullen was standing on his own two feet, no longer gaunt, well-groomed, and in the fur-collared surcoat with the sword at his side, there was an echo of the old lion.

Cullen stared at her for a moment before he seemed to remember his manners. “Ah... thank you.”

Dorian was rather certain that Cullen didn’t remember her. If Lace had the same realization, she didn’t let it show. She only smiled at Cullen before turning her attention back to Dorian.

“The Inquisitor is waiting for you, Ambassador,” she said, gesturing towards the hall behind her. “In the Enchantment Room.”

Dorian smiled. “I won’t keep him waiting, then. Hopefully we can catch up after? Perhaps over lunch?” he proposed. “Meanwhile, I’m sure that Cassandra can fill you in on any recent developments.”

Cassandra gave Dorian a sharp look. Assessing. _Maker’s bloody balls, does she really think I pose a threat to the Inquisitor? After all this time? After all he’s done?_ He half expected her to protest, but she merely shrugged. “Just try to play nice, Dorian.”

\---------------

Cullen trailed behind Dorian as he made his way down the corridor to the Enchantment Room.

It was a long rectangular workroom, dominated by a series of cupboards and shelves along the walls where the crafting materials were stored, and a large oak table that occupied most of the remaining space. Light filtered in through the tall windows of the south side, illuminating the room and the lone man who stood hunched over the table with his back to the door.

Maxwell Trevelyan.

As Dorian entered, the Inquisitor straightened and turned.

He was a breathtakingly beautiful man. He’d grown his hair out since Dorian had last seen him, so now it fell down past his broad shoulders, light as flax, and – as Dorian recalled – soft as feathers. He had sharp, cunning eyes that were almost gray by candlelight, but were a brilliant crystalline blue in the sunlight. Aristocratic Orlesian women would have killed for those high cheekbones, that perfectly creamy complexion, and those full, curving lips. The man had always been fashionable, and today was no exception. He wore tall black boots polished to a high sheen, tight-fitting breeches of pale suede, and a well-tailored, long black coat that flattered his slim but finely-muscled body, the left sleeve folded up and neatly pinned.

Dorian couldn’t deny that before Bull his taste in men had been somewhat shallow. Like everyone else in Skyhold those early days, Dorian had found Trevelyan irresistibly attractive. The only regret he had was that he’d allowed himself to be blinded by the man’s beauty even after he’d seen the signs that Trevelyan was a bloodthirsty sociopath who lusted only after power.

He was still beautiful. The missing arm was his only imperfection.

That, and the fact that his near-perfect shell housed a soul as black as swamp water.

The Inquisitor’s gaze swept over Dorian, then lingered briefly on Cullen. If he were surprised to see his ex-Commander, his expression – cool, distant – gaze nothing away.

 _He has spies in Tevinter,_ Dorian realized. _Watching me. Of course he knows._

Dorian was the first to break the silence. “Welcome to Tevinter, Inquisitor,” he said, with barely veiled sarcasm. “How was your trip?”

What happened next was so fast that it was only a blur.

Like a racehorse out of the gate, Cullen shot forth. Rushing forward towards Trevelyan with a growl, his legs scissored as the determined fall of his hard-soled boots echoed throughout the room. In mere seconds he’d closed the gap between them. At the same time, he drew his sword from his scabbard in one smooth motion, silvery steel arcing through the air, up past his shoulder, and then swinging back down again.

Directly at the Inquisitor’s pretty neck.

Muscle memory. Executing the same move he’d made a hundred times before in another life, a life that had been stolen from him by the man who had put the lyrium in his hand.

The Inquisitor dodged to sidestep the threat. Barely managed to evade the blade that cut the air, whistling. Spinning about, his hand was already reaching for one of the daggers he kept hidden at all times against his body, under his coat.

Having missed its target, Cullen’s sword continued its trajectory. Such was the force behind the blow that the momentum carried the sword all the way down, the metal clanging as it struck the marble floor.

Dagger gripped firmly in hand, the Inquisitor lunged.

Cullen attacking the Inquisitor was the last thing that Dorian had expected. For a few seconds he was too stunned to even react. Only when he saw the eerie blue glint that coated the Inquisitor’s knife as he thrust it towards his attacker did he realize what was about to happen.

Roused to action, Dorian fumbled for the staff that he wore strapped to his back. At the same time he tried to shout a warning. Nearly overcome with panic, the words were whispery wet things that clogged in his throat.

But it was too late. Before Cullen could even recover from his failed attack, the Inquisitor’s knife sank into his flesh.

The blade was thin and sharp. Trevelyan felt nearly no resistance at all as he thrust the dagger into Cullen’s chest. He almost smiled as the knife slid into the ex-Templar as though he were made of butter.

Cullen gasped as Trevelyan jerked the dagger back out again. Lips parted, eyes wide, his body shuddering as the poison began to take effect. The sword slipped from his grasp, clattering to the floor, as Cullen dropped like a stone.

The Inquisitor’s gaze snapped to Dorian. The mage had grabbed hold of his staff, and was now swinging it through the air, taking aim.

Trevelyan didn’t stop to think. He perceived the threat – and, as he’d seen Dorian in battle before, he knew precisely how dangerous the mage was – and reacted. With one practiced flick of the wrist he sent the dagger sailing towards Dorian, turning over twice, before it reached its mark.

Dorian didn’t even realize that he’d been hit at first. There had been a brief flash of silver, and then a sensation like someone shoving against his shoulder. Strangely, it didn’t hurt. But before he could cast the spell that would immobilize the Inquisitor, he felt his body turn to ice. Unable to feel his legs anymore, Dorian crumpled to the ground.

_What in the blasted Void...?_

Footsteps. The Inquisitor kicked at his staff, which clattered as it struck the wall several paces away, decidedly out of Dorian’s reach. Then Trevelyan was standing over him, frowning.

“Seriously, Dorian?” the Inquisitor muttered, in that voice Dorian had forgotten – so lusciously rich it could melt the chastity belt off a Chanty sister. “You made me come all this fucking way just so you could sick your bloody watchdog on me?”

Cold. He felt cold. He could feel it – that diabolic icy sensation pumping through his flesh. Even with effort, he could barely move his limbs. His legs were like dying fish out of water, uselessly flopping. His chest felt tight, as though he were caught in a giant’s tightening fist.

“That...” Dorian puffed out, “was entirely not my intention. I’m just as surprised as you are.”

Trevelyan stared down at him, still frowning. “Andraste’s ass, Dorian. I never wanted to kill you.”

 _Kill you...._ The words echoed around in Dorian’s head. But of course. The blade was poisoned with something lethal. Maker, he was dying. Here, on the floor of the Circle of Minrathous. By the Inquisitor’s hand.

Strange how Trevelyan wasn’t showing the slightest sign of remorse.

“Poison, is it?” Dorian forced a bitter laugh. “I should of known what kind of man you were when you let that Dalish woman train you to be as assassin.”

Trevelyan’s lips curled up into something cold and cruel. Leaning down, he reached for the hilt of the dagger still embedded in Dorian’s shoulder, smiling wider as he jerked it free. Briefly he examined the blade before secreting it away in its hidden sheath.

“Actually, I should thank you and your lover, Dorian,” Trevelyan said casually, then smirked as Dorian’s eyes widened. “This is a new poison that I’ve been dying to try out. It’s actually magical, so it’s much quicker than traditional poisons.”

Dorian knew that the poison was killing him. But on some level, he was still in denial. Impossible that he could actually be dying.

“So happy to oblige you,” Dorian said, mustering up all the sarcasm he could. He refused to give the Inquisitor the satisfaction of seeing his fear. And yet the rage sparked, sizzling on his tongue and he hissed the words before he could stop himself. _“You heartless bastard.”_

Unperturbed by the insult, Trevelyan reached into his long coat to withdraw a small vial which he set down upon the table. Within it, a rosy liquid glistened. He then turned back to look down at the magister.

“Shall I tell you about this poison?” he asked. Before Dorian could even formulate a response, Trevelyan began to speak again. Not surprising, considering how much the man loved the sound of his own voice. “In a few minutes, it will paralyze your lungs. That’s how it kills, you see. You suffocate to death.”

Dorian felt that thread of fear pulse inside his heart. He stared up at the Inquisitor, unblinking.

Trevelyan lifted his hand to run one elegant finger over the tiny, stoppered bottle he’d set upon the table. “This is the antidote to the poison that’s now coursing through your veins and Cullen’s. But there’s only enough to save one of you.” Dropping his hand, the Inquisitor smiled coldly again. “I guess you’re going to have to choose, Dorian. You or him.”

 _You sick fuck,_ Dorian thought. Forcing him to choose _this_.... was there anything more cruel? Even killing Bull could have been explained away as simple self-defense.

He had an epiphany: Maxwell Trevelyan, the Inquisitor, was pure evil.

His suspicion was only confirmed when Trevelyan let out a dark little chuckle. “Of course, the answer is obvious, isn’t it?” he drawled. “I think we all know what kind of man you are.”

He could feel the poison working. The fist around his chest – it was tightening, making it increasingly harder to draw breath. He could also feel a tremendous and terrible pain in his chest, as if Trevelyan had carved out his heart with a jagged piece of glass and filled the void with rage. He tried to summon up a spell, but the Fade refused to be touched, dancing away from his fingertips.

The antidote sat on the table, halfway between him and Cullen, who lay boneless but still conscious upon his side upon the floor.

Dorian’s legs were completely useless. Using his arms he began to drag himself towards the vial, panting and grunting with every movement. Trevelyan stepped back, out of his way, and watched Dorian crawl.

Dorian reached up, and snatched the small bottle from the table top. The glass was cool against his palm.

Cullen’s voice, labored, breathless, captured his attention.

“Dorian...” Cullen wheezed. “Please... drink it.”

The fingers Dorian could barely feel tightened around the vial. “Cullen...”

Amber eyes pierced into his. “I failed you...” Cullen said. “I meant to protect you...”

“Cullen. You didn’t fail anyone –”

Cullen cut him off with a plea. “Dorian, _please.”_ He paused, trying to catch his breath. “I don’t remember how I felt about you, but... I like to believe that I loved you from the first moment I saw you. That I love you still. That I will love you always... even from the Maker’s side.”

At Cullen’s heartfelt confession, Dorian felt his rage melt away. In its place, he was filled with a tempestuous sea of sorrow.

He fingered the waxy seal of the vial, and considered his choice.

The Inquisitor’s words echoed around in his head. _I think we all know what kind of man you are._ This was followed by Cassandra’s: _Dorian, do you even care about anyone other than yourself?_

He’d tried not to let Cullen into his heart. Tried, and failed. Yes, Cullen was going to die from his lyrium addiction within months, but that didn’t make the choice any less painful.

A moment’s reflection, and then Dorian knew what to do.

A terrible, unforgivable, and most selfish thing.

As his fingernails pried off the seal, he met Cullen’s gaze, and poured all of his emotion into his next words.

“Cullen... I’m sorry.”

Dorian tipped back the vial and drank.

 


	9. i am not consumed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone is about to die, so... trigger warning for DEATH.

Leaning back against the cupboards, his right hand absentmindedly caressing the stump of his missing arm, Maxwell Trevelyan watched as Cullen Rutherford died.

It was delightfully painful to watch. With each passing moment, Cullen’s breathing became more shallow and forced. Soon he was gasping – pathetic little hiccups – in an attempt to get enough air. Each gasp was smaller than the last. Until, finally, the magical poison paralyzed his lungs, and he was drowning in plain air.

Convulsions wracked his body. Even from his distance, Trevelyan could see the cords of veins in the ex-Commander’s neck and temples as he struggled against death, and his skin as it began to take on a bloodless blue tinge. It didn’t look pleasant, and Trevelyan vaguely wondered how it must feel. Cullen’s mouth made soundless shapes – was he praying to the Maker to save him? Or to hasten his death?

The empty vial slipped from Dorian’s grasp and clinked once as it struck the marble floor. Trevelyan’s gaze darted briefly to the mage. Dorian would still be weak. Not that Trevelyan was very concerned about what Dorian might do. The Tevinter had always been annoyingly opinionated and mouthy, but harmless. He hadn’t even had the balls to fight back when Trevelyan had physically attacked him that time in Skyhold. Instead, the mage had slunk off with his tail between his legs like a coward, despite all his grand talk of there needing to be a Tevinter involved in the defeat of Corypheus.

Dorian’s eyes were fixed on his dying lover. By his hideous expression, it almost seemed as if it were Dorian himself who were drowning. Trevelyan considered the mage only briefly, delighting in Dorian’s pain, before turning back to Cullen.

A few more moments ticked away. Then Cullen’s eyes rolled back in his head as his body shuddered once more before becoming limp, and slumping to the ground.

Cullen had been a good soldier of the Inquisition. Good at following Trevelyan’s commands. _Unlike Dorian._ Still, the ex-Commander was no longer useful to him – he’d served his purpose – so Trevelyan didn’t feel bad. In fact, having heard the details of Cullen’s condition from Harding, really, he was doing the poor bastard a favor.

As for Dorian, the mage and his list of spies _was_ still useful to him. Without it, Trevelyan probably wouldn’t have let him live. Maker, the man really was insufferable – arrogant, cocky, and so bloody righteous. The only thing that Trevelyan had liked about him was the eager compliance he’d displayed in bed. Unfortunate that the mage had come to his quarters only once before he’d taken up with the _Ben-Hassrath_ spy.

The soft clack of wood on marble caught his ear. He whirled around to see Dorian standing on shaky legs, his eyes blazing with murderous intent, as he leveled his mage staff directly at Trevelyan’s chest.

With a start, he realized that he’d made a mistake in underestimating Dorian.

The Inquisitor made a grab for his dagger. But it was too late. With an angry curse in Tevene, Dorian cast his spell.

Electrical fire shot through the space between them and stopped the Inquisitor’s heart.

\---------------

He was drifting through darkness. He didn’t know for how long. He only knew that it was starless, and that he was cold and alone and full of longing for something he could not name. Floating aimlessly until in the distance he saw a welcoming light, one that called to him, drawing him closer like a moth of a flame. He had no body, but somehow he moved towards it.

Yet, as he drifted, he heard a voice. A familiar voice, calling him back.

_Cullen... wake up._

For a moment he hesitated, torn between the voice and the light.

_Cullen... come back. Please come back to me, amatus._

That voice calling him. He could not refuse it. He would not question.

He turned away from the light...

… and felt his body jerk as he sucked in a large gulp of air, blinking up at the concerned face of Dorian Pavus hovering over him.

The lines etched deeply into Dorian’s brow smoothed over, and new, fine lines appeared at the corners of his eyes as he smiled. “Welcome back,” he said, voice low and tone light. “Did you have a nice trip?”

Tongue caught, Cullen could only stare, still marveling over the feel of the blessed air moving in and out of his lungs.

“Do say something,” Dorian urged him. “Anything.”

Cullen thought. It was still so clear. The knife. The cold. Suffocating. “I was dead.”

Dorian let out a long sigh of relief. “Yes.”

“You... brought me back.”

“Yes.”

Cullen paused, trying to think. “How?”

Dorian’s lips tightened briefly. “That’s a bit hard to explain,” he said. “Well, actually, I suppose it’s rather simple. I used magic. In particular, Nevarran death magic. Did you know that they have spells that allow them to bind spirits to dead bodies? During my travels, I found a mage who was willing to teach me his techniques.”

Cullen remained silent.

Dorian made a small sound of exasperation. “I _am_ sorry. I had to let you die. It was truly the only way – otherwise, it wouldn’t have worked.”

His thoughts were a tangle. The Inquisitor had killed him. He’d known that being killed was a possibility. But he’d accepted that risk. Dying, on his own two feet, with a sword in his hand, for revenge was a far better death than his lyrium addiction had to offer.

And Dorian had just stolen his chance to die with dignity.

His voice was a whispered plea. “Dorian... _why?”_

Pain washed over Dorian’s features. “I watched you die and I realized... I realized that I just couldn’t –”

A tumult in the hall cut off Dorian’s words. Metal clanked and footsteps thundered. Both men looked up as Cassandra and Lace Harding burst into the room.

Seeing the bodies on the floor, they came to a sudden halt.

Cassandra’s gaze stabbed into Dorian. “We heard a shout. What happened here?” Grim, her eyes flicked to the body of the blond man not moving on the floor. “Is he...?”

“He’s alive,” Dorian said wearily.

“Thank the Ancestors,” Harding murmured softly.

Cassandra’s gaze hardened. “Dorian. I think you’d better explain.”

Dorian’s gaze switched between the two women. Harding was looking at them with open concern, hands twisting. Cassandra was looking at him like he’d just killed the Inquisitor. Although, to be fair, stopping a man’s heart usually did mean he was dead. Only in this case, Dorian hadn’t _left_ him in that state. Even though, for a brief moment, he’d considered it.

He wasn’t concerned about Harding’s reaction to what he was about to say. The Seeker, on the other hand... well, he wasn’t quite certain how she was going to react.

Dorian forced a smile. “In that case, I suggest you close the door first and then sit down.”

\---------------

It was another glorious day in Minrathous and yet Dorian Pavus had opted to remain locked up inside his mother’s house on _Vicus Serico._

Six weeks had passed since the events at the Circle. Almost six weeks since Lace, Cassandra and the Inquisitor had left Tevinter with Dorian’s list of contacts. Since then, Dorian had rejected all invitations to any sort of social gathering. Other than the slaves, he hadn’t spoken to anyone. At least until Maevaris Tilani had come to his door, refusing to be turned away.

Dorian had been given enough warning that he’d had enough time to compose himself into the picture of pure untouchable impassivity. Now they sat across from each other in Dorian’s sitting room as one of the slaves served them tea and cake.

Maevaris studied him over the rim of her teacup. “You’ve made yourself scarce, honeyheart. No one has seen you for weeks.”

Dorian made a lazy, noncommittal gesture. “I haven’t been feeling social lately,” he drawled. “And given the quality of the majority of the company we keep, can you blame me?”

Mae _tsked_ , waggling a maternal finger at him. “That doesn’t mean that hiding yourself away like an old hermit is doing you any good.”

Dorian smiled indulgently. “And I suppose you have some plan to rescue me from my dreadful solitude?”

Mae returned the smile. “Indeed I do.” Setting her cup delicately down upon the saucer, she rang the bell for the servant. When the elven slave appeared, she instructed him to fetch the ‘package’ she had left in the foyer.

“Package, Mae? I hope it’s candied dates. You know how I adore those.”

“This is better,” Mae said, piquing Dorian’s genuine curiosity.

A moment later, the slave reappeared, accompanying a rather pretty young man. Even more curious, Dorian’s eyes swept over him.

Short dark hair. Gray eyes. Pointed ears. Mage robes.

Turning back to Mae, Dorian cocked a questioning eyebrow.

“This is Castor,” she said. “Smart lad, very skilled at alchemy and physical magic. He is also in need of work. Unfortunately, his last position as Magister Plinius’ secretary didn’t work out in his favor.”

Dorian stared at Mae, chagrined. Plinius was an utterly repugnant worm of a magister, so Dorian couldn’t discredit the young man for being dismissed by his employer. However, the last thing he needed was another pretty young elven male who shared his tastes living under his roof.

Dorian gave the young elf a polite smile. “I have some matters to discuss with Magister Tilani,” he said. “I will speak to you in my office momentarily. Calamus will show you the way.”

Castor bowed and then followed the slave out.

Dorian waited until they had withdrawn, then fixed Mae in a disgruntled stare. “I know you mean well, Mae, but... the absolute last thing I need now is another elf boy to keep me warm at night and – Maker’s breath, how old _is_ he? He looks no more than sixteen.”

A devious grin curled out from her lips. “Don’t worry, darling. He’s twenty-three.” She chuckled softly. “He’s also a fine young man, but I’m pretty sure that you wouldn’t be, shall we say, particularly _interested_ in what he has under his robes.”

Dorian paused. “Then he’s...?” he began, trailing purposefully off.

“Like me?” Mae asked. “He is.”

Dorian made a thoughtful grunt. “Still, Mae... I don’t need any.... trouble.”

Mae laughed again. “Oh, No worries there. I’m moderately certain that Castor isn’t interested in what’s under _your_ robes.” Picking up her teacup again, she added, “Or anyone’s robes, really. The impression I had is that he’s only interested in _books.”_

 _Only interested in books?_ Well, he couldn’t fault the elf’s taste, then.

He bit back a sigh. “Very well, Mae,” he capitulated. “I will try him out.”

Mae smiled smugly into her cup. “Good. At least you won’t be alone.”

“You make being alone sound like some terrible fate.”

Mae shifted on the divan, recrossing her legs, as she studied Dorian for a long moment. “And your blond barbarian? You’ve had no news of him?”

Dorian leaned back in his chair, lifting a hand to lightly trace over his mustache with his thumb and forefinger as a diversionary tactic. He written to Mae about five weeks ago, but he’d given her an incomplete and misleading version of the events at the Circle. He’d only said that Cullen would no longer be his guest.

 _Kaffas,_ how he missed that man. Cullen Stanton Rutherford – the burning brand capable of staunching Dorian’s pain and closing the aching wound that had been left behind when he’d gone away. The only man who had ever spoken those three words to him, the words he’d always longed to hear.

_The one Dorian was lit for._

Dorian smiled to mask his pain. “No,” he said. “No news at all.”

\---------------

Lilia of House Petalis arrived at the small brick house on _Vicus Antiquus_ promptly at two o’clock on a Sunday afternoon.

Led into the study by one of the slaves, she was greeted by a retired magister by the name of Paramonus, though most of the healers of her generation knew him by another name, given to him for his unusual proclivities. The Anatomist.

He was an ancient man, wizened, with thick, round spectacles of a magical nature to correct and enhance his failing vision, and a mostly bald pate except for random white tufts of dandelion hair that floated about his head. As she entered the room, he shuffled over, taking her hands into his gnarled ones, and smiling at her with genuine warmth.

“Ahh, Mistress Lilia,” he said. “So good of you to come at such short notice, to visit a lonely old man.”

Lilia smiled warmly in return. “I’m happy to come visit anytime,” she said. “Especially when you drop hints in your letter about some ‘remarkable discovery.’”

The Anatomist released her hands, then reached behind him for his walking stick. “Yes, I remembered that you were researching the long-term effects of lyrium on the brain. So what I have is... well, it would be better to show you.” Pausing, he peered up at her face. “Unless you’d prefer to take some refreshment first...?”

The curiosity in the healer was too strong to resist. Whatever the old man had discovered, she knew it would be worth the trip across Minrathous, just for a glimpse of it.

“I’m rather eager to learn more of this discovery.”

“Good, good,” he murmured with approval. “Come along, then. I believe you won’t be disappointed.”

Lilia accompanied the old mage through the house and down to his laboratory.

It was a bright room, with many white surfaces, all sparkling cleanly. On one table, a shallow ceramic basin contained a multitude of grisly, sharp-toothed steel tools for dissection. Dominating the space was a long, narrow table upon which a body lay, partially obscured by a sheet. Lilia was not particularly squeamish, however the sight of the body caused her stomach to clench. The top of the cadaver’s head faced the door. The Anatomist had already removed the skull cap and the brain, and the empty cavity of the skull was an unsettling vision.

The old man waved her over to the nearby table where the extracted brain sat upon a shallow dish, hemispheres neatly separated by the stroke of a knife.

“This body was delivered last night,” the Anatomist said as they approached the corpse. “One of the elven shopkeepers found the man dead in his doorway the other morning when he arrived to open shop. Given his appearance they assumed he was a beggar, but there was no sign of violence, or other visible indication of death.”

“So your Templar contacts brought the body to you,” Lilia filled in.

“Yes. No one came forth to identify the body. Poor man.” The Anatomist bowed his head briefly in silent respect for the dead. Then his eyes, behind the thick panes of his glasses, lit up. “But then, when I began the autopsy, I discovered this.”

He slid the dish closer to allow Lilia a better look.

Lilia studied the brain. It was much smaller than the average male brain, and within its shriveled folds, there were strange pockets, faintly edged with dark blue. As if something had eaten the flesh. She’d never seen anything quite like it.

She blinked in wonder. “Is that... from lyrium?”

“The most advanced case I’ve ever seen.”

The lyrium had literally eaten _holes_ in this man’s brain. Lilia shuddered slightly, thinking of all the times that she herself had consumed lyrium to enhance her own magic. “Andraste’s blood, I’m never taking lyrium again.”

The old man patted her hand. “I’m sure you’re fine. This sort of damage could only accumulate after years of continual, heavy abuse.” His eyes fell on the cadaver again. “This poor man, however – I imagine he must have suffered greatly. The sort of death I’d only wish upon my worst enemy.”

Fascinated, Lilia continued to study the organ. The frontal lobes were the most seriously damaged, but the primal brain showed signs of deterioration, as well. Briefly she wondered about the exact cause of death. If the lyrium had begun to eat away at the parts of his brain that controlled involuntary movements, such as his heart or his breathing –

Suddenly, she had a thought. Strange how she’d be so caught up by her scientific curiosity that it hadn’t occurred to her sooner.

The Anatomist had set the skull cap aside. Lilia looked at it. _Blond hair._

She knew. Still, she needed to verify it with her own eyes. She took a few steps closer to the body and looked down upon the dead man’s face.

His face was gaunt. Someone had closed his eyes, but she recognized him easily enough by the scar just barely visible in the scruff of his unkempt beard, the one that jagged down to kiss the top of his lips.

She didn’t know what her expression was doing, but it caused the old man to touch her lightly upon the arm, as he looked up at her with concern. “Mistress Lilia? Is everything all right?”

Lilia hesitated for a moment, considering her options. Then she made her decision.

“I need to send a message to Magister Dorian Pavus.”

\---------------

In the Summer, the gardens of the Winter Palace were delightful.

The air was redolent with the fragrance of citrus and honeysuckle, lilacs and roses. Thin wisps of white clouds were sketched across the brilliantly blue sky, as the sun splashed down upon the white marble of the statues and the stones, almost blinding Dorian with their reflected brightness as he walked the path. Tilting his head, he smiled down at Lace Harding, who walked at his side.

“Have you tried the lemonade that’s all the rage in Val Royeaux yet?” he asked. “It’s made with crushed raspberries and mint, with just a dash of sweetened syrup. Absolutely delightful, and quite refreshing on a hot day.”

“I’m afraid not,” Harding said. “The Inquisitor and I only arrived back here an hour ago. It took me that long to track you down.”

“I was just enjoying the gardens,” Dorian said distractedly, letting his gaze roam about. “I’ve rarely had a moment alone since I arrived. I decided it best to take advantage of the moment as soon as everyone realized they had something more pressing to do than pander to the Ambassador from Tevinter.”

Harding silently debated with herself whether Dorian enjoyed being pandered to. He’d certainly always acted like he belonged at the center of the attention back in Skyhold. Had things changed? She couldn’t quite decide.

Harding hadn’t seen Dorian since they’d left Tevinter just over three months ago. Although Dorian was as impeccably dressed and beautiful as ever, there seemed to be something different about his demeanor. Something... haunted.

“I received your letter, Dorian,” Harding said in a low voice. “It’s true, then? That he’s... gone?”

Dorian had been a little vague in that letter, in case of interception. He’d hoped that Harding would be able to read between the lines. “Yes,” he said. Then, “Quite a relief, really.”

He didn’t look relieved in the slightest, so Harding didn’t believe him. But she didn’t say so.

Dorian’s gaze drifted back to her. “And... the Inquisitor? He is... well?”

Harding considered the question briefly. There was so much she could say if only they had been alone, away from prying ears. “He is, Ambassador,” she said finally. “But you will see for yourself.”

The magister hummed thoughtfully, but said no more.

Harding led the way. They passed into the palace proper, then turned towards the guest wing. Eventually she stopped before a door to one of the suites. Her knock was answered by a somewhat muffled voice bidding them to enter.

Harding opened the door, then stepped aside to allow Dorian room to enter. “Inquisitor? Ambassador Pavus is here to see you.”

Dorian fingers twitched and his heart skittered as the Inquisitor, who had been rising from his seat at the desk against one wall of the room, stood and turned to face them.

He wore the familiar red formal jacket of the Inquisition, though now, unsashed and unbuttoned, it hung open, revealing a stripe of the thin white tunic beneath. He’d cut his fair hair since Dorian had last seen him, but otherwise, he looked the same, all cream complexion and eyes that cut like blue diamonds in the bright summer light pouring in through the open windows, the left sleeve of his jacket neatly folded up and pinned.

“Thank you, Captain,” the Inquisitor said.

Harding gave Dorian a polite nod of the head before withdrawing from the room, closing the door behind her.

Dorian remained still, staring as the Inquisitor stalked towards him, then stopped before him. Raising his hand, the Inquisitor’s fingers ghosted over Dorian’s neck, then around to settle on the back of his neck. “Dorian,” he said in that voice like liquid fire. “I –”

Flash of memory – that hand curled into a fist, flying towards his face.

Another flash – that hand on the back of Dorian’s neck, forcefully pinning him down into the mattress as he thrust mercilessly inside.

Dorian jerked back. It was a visceral, violent reaction, the force of which sent him staggering back into the door.

The Inquisitor stared at him, his hand hovering in the air. Then he slowly lowered it. “Forgive me...” he murmured. “I didn’t think...” Sighing, he reached up to rub at the back of his neck. “This must be very strange for you.”

Against his back he felt the hard wood of the door – solid, reassuring. It helped to ground him. In silence, his eyes roamed the Inquisitor’s face, seeking.

“Dorian...?”

The mage sighed. “No, I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just... well, it’s just going to take some time to... adjust.”

The Inquisitor looked at him for a moment. Gaze soft. Full of longing. Love.

Then the Inquisitor huffed a little nervous laugh as he turned his face away. “Of course...” he said softly. “I understand. It’s just that I...” Trailing off, he lifted his gaze back to Dorian’s face. _“Maker’s breath,_ I missed you.”

In his chest, Dorian’s heart was wax over an open flame, softening, then melting.

 _I needed him to live._ That had been the driving force behind what he’d done that day in the Circle of Magi. He’d only wanted Cullen to live. There hadn’t been time to even consider the possible consequences. And because Cullen was dying, he hadn’t dared hope for any sort of future.

Yet now, he was here in Val Royeaux. With the _Inquisitor._

Truly the last thing he’d ever expected.

But the one thing that he wanted.

All he had to do was just reach out. To take what this man was offering. To offer himself in return.

Dorian drew a breath. _“Kaffas,_ I missed _you.”_

Then he pushed himself off the door, throwing his arms around the Inquisitor’s neck. Eyes blue as the Orlesian summer sky lit up with happy surprise, and the Inquisitor’s arm slid round to circle Dorian’s back as the mage’s lips crashed into his.

It felt the same as he recalled it. A burst of Spring, warm air, the sweet taste of flowers upon lips soft as petals. The heady rush of a thousand wishes as stars swirled off the Inquisitor’s tongue. In his chest, he felt the warm sea tide, surging and ebbing in time with the beat of his heart, swollen and sticky with love.

Desperate as a drowning man, Dorian clung to the Inquisitor, kissing him and holding him close. By the time he drew back, both men were breathless.

The Inquisitor leaned forward so that his forehead was pressed lightly against Dorian’s. Closing his eyes, he sighed deeply, breath warm against Dorian’s face as he murmured a plea.

“Dorian... please. Say my name.”

That voice that spoke his name. That beautiful face so close to his. And that body he’d known once. Reminders of the man who had merited his hate. Only now, because of Dorian’s magic, that body housed a pillar of goodness and light.

The man he loved.

Drawing in another breath, Dorian clasped the man closer, and whispered his name.

_Cullen._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I note that if you read the chapter titles in order, they form a poem called "To a Dark Moses" by Lucille Clifton.
> 
> I kind of feel like Castor deserved more attention, since there probably need to be more stories about asexual elven transmen in the world. 
> 
> I hope that ending satisfied. Thank you for reading! May Andraste smile kindly upon you.


End file.
